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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












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Wilhelmina 


© 1923 MATRE ft CO . CHICAGO 





THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


by 

CLEMENTIA 




Author of Mostly Mary, Mary's Rainbow, Uncle Frank's Mary, 
The Quest of Mary Selwyn, Bird-a-Lea, etc. 


Xt Tk'< 





Copyright, 1923, by 

Matre & Company, Chicago 


All R ights Reserved 



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©CU700289 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


CLEMENTIA’S STORIES 


THE BERTA AND BETH BOOKS 

“Mostly Mary/ 1 with frontispiece, $1.00 postpaid. 
“Mary's Rainbow/' with frontispiece, $1.00 postpaid. 

Each Story Complete. 


THE MARY SELWYN BOOKS 

“Uncle Frank's Mary/' with frontispiece, $1.50 net. 

“The Quest of Mary Selwyn/' sequel, with frontispiece, $1.50 net. 
“Bird-A-Lea," complete story, illustrated, $1.50 postpaid. 

“The Selwyns in Dixie," complete story, with frontispiece, $1.50 
postpaid. 




To the dear 

ALUMNI 

OF 

S. P. A. 

this little story 
is gratefully inscribed. 













































































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CONTENTS 


Chapter p age 

I. A STOLEN VISIT. 1 

II. SOUTHWARD BOUND. 12 

III. FOUR PROPER HOURS. 24 

IV. SUNNYMEAD . 31 

V. A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS. . 39 

VI. A CLOSE CALL. 51 

VII. wilhelmina’s predicament. 60 

VIII. I AM-1 DO-WE ARE. 69 

IX. THREE BEWILDERED BOYS. 80 

X. TWO TRIUMPHANT GIRLS. 94 

XI. A ROYAL WELCOME. 103 

XII. PLANS . 112 

XIII. daddy’s old home. 123 

XIV. THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE. 136 

XV. AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION. 147 

XVI. THE FAMILY SECRET. 156 

XVII. HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES. . . 164 

XVIII. BAB . 178 

XIX. A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 194 

XX. phil’s scrape. 209 

XXI. “i told you so”. 222 

XXII. ebenezer's peril. 228 

XXIII. MARY FACES THE MOB. 245 

XXIV. GOOD-BYE TO CEDAR RIDGE. 258 
























THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


CHAPTER I 

A STOLEN VISIT 

The gaunt, black branches of the great trees 
swayed and creaked uneasily in the cold, raw, east 
wind, which moaned about the corners of the 
house, rattling the icicles still clinging to the dead 
vines on the walls. To Jerry, trudging along the 
road from the village, Bird-a-Lea presented a dis¬ 
mal, deserted appearance, indeed. 

“Who’d ever think the place could look so 
spooky.” And muttering to himself, he vaulted 
over the low stone wall with the intention of tak¬ 
ing a short cut through the orchard and gardens 
to the barns. “Mebbe I ain’t glad it’s the middle 
of Janiwerry ’stead of November. The winter can’t 
last more ’n two months longer, and they ’ll be back 
just as soon as the spring sets in. It’ll be a mighty 
lonesome time, I’m thinkin’, ’thout the two little 
ones runnin’ out every day with all their old chat 
to see how’s the flowers doin’; and Miss Mary, 
Lord love her, cornin’ every mornin’ first thing for 
some posies for her little altar. She’s a plucky 
youngster, ’n so’s the one that went with her that 
night to rout out the nuns and tell ’em the convent 
was afire. I’ll be hanged if I know how I’m goin’ to 
stand it after the lively times we’ve been havin’ 
1 


2 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


with all them black-eyed kids from Georgia about 
the place for the past two or three weeks. Fine, 
manly little chaps, every one of ’em. I’ll never 
forget how cunnin’ that littlest one, Jack, looked, 
cornin’ out of the greenhouse yesterday mornin’ 
with his hands in his pockets and his cap on the 
back of his head and my old pipe in his mouth. 
What in tarnation—!” He stopped abruptly and 
stared at the front porch. “ ’Tain’t one of the 
dogs, because I locked ’em all up in the barn be¬ 
fore I started for the village.” 

The gardener cautiously approached the house, 
keeping the trunks of the trees between him and 
the moving object. In the rapidly deepening twi¬ 
light he found it impossible to discern what it was; 
and when he had reached the edge of the orchard, 
he stood for some minutes behind a tree waiting 
for it to turn and approach the east end of the 
porch. In this, however, he was disappointed; for 
when the dark object, in a strangely hesitating 
manner, reached the far end, it disappeared 
around the west side of the house. 

‘ 4 It’s going to follow the porch all the way 
round, an’ I’ll take the chance of gettin’ a closer 
look at the critter.” He strode across the inter¬ 
vening lawn to a great maple growing near the 
south-east corner of the house; but he might have 
adopted a more leisurely gait, for he had ample 
time to lose his patience before the object of his 
curiosity again made its appearance. 


A STOLEN VISIT 


3 


44 Well, I’ll be banged if it ain’t a child! One of 
the little girls from the convent, it must be; there 
ain’t any others hereabouts. But what’s she up 

to, anyhow?.Oho! so that’s your game, is 

it? Tryin’ every last window and door to see if 
they’re open. No use. I went around after the 
folks left and fastened ’em well so’s I could go off 
to the village with a mind easy on that score. ’ ’ 

On came the child, utterly unconscious of Jerry’s 
watchful eye. Save for a small shawl which she 
clutched tightly about her head and shoulders, she 
wore no wraps. 

44 If it wasn’t that I’d scare the wits cut of her, 
I’d wrap my overcoat around her and hustle her 
back where she belongs, the little mischief! She ’ll 
get her death! Listen to her cough! Scare or no 
scare, if she ain’t satisfied pretty soon, I’ll take 
a hand.” Jerry himself shivered in the piercing 
wind. 

Turning the corner of the house, the child pro¬ 
ceeded from window to window until she reached 
the front door. Seizing the knob with both hands, 
she turned and twisted and shook it with all her 
small strength; then, with a cry of bitter disap¬ 
pointment, she sank sobbing and coughing against 
the door. This was too much for Jerry; and 
throwing caution to the wind, he strode along the 
driveway toward the front steps. At the sound of 
his footsteps, the child started up with a fright¬ 
ened scream and fled to the west end of the porch. 



4 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


*‘Don’t be scared, little girl. It’s only me.” 
f< 0 Jerry, bow you frightened me!” With a sob 
of relief she retraced her steps. “It’s getting so 
dark that I couldn’t see who you were.” 

“But what in creation are you doin’ over here 

at this time of the day, Miss-Miss- 

you mustn’t mind that I’ve forgot your name. I 
know you all right; but Miss Mary has so many 
of her friends from the convent over here, that it 
would take a Philadelphy lawyer to remember all 
their names. Don’t you know the whole family’s 
gone away for the rest of the winter, and there 
ain’t no one in the house or about the place except 
me?” 

“Yes, yes, I know they have gone, and she will 
never, never come back.” The sobbing began 
again. ‘ ‘ She never stopped being kind to me, and 
I love her more than I do anyone else in this whole 
world; but everybody that I have ever loved has 
gone away and has never come back,—Father, 
Mother, Grandmother,—and now she’s gone, too, 

and I know she will never-” 

“Oh, come, come, don’t cry like that. See here,” 
Jerry produced a bunch of keys, “you’ve got to 
come inside and get warm. I can turn on one of 
them new-fangled heaters if the steam’s gone 
down. I was lettin’ the fire die out, knowin’ there 
wouldn’t be no more use for it. What were the 
nuns thinkin’ of to let you out like this?” 

“They don’t know I am here, Jerry, and yon 




A STOLEN VISIT 


5 


must never tell.” The child spoke in a whisper as, 
with a new light in her eyes, she followed him into 
the library. “I’m Florence— Florence Berkeley. 
Of course, I shall tell Mother Madeline the very 
first time I see her. She is Mary’s aunt, you know, 
and she will understand; but no one else would. ’ ’ 

“But what about that cold you’ve got!” 

“Oh, that!” She sighed wearily. “Yes, it al¬ 
most shakes me to pieces when I cough. I have 
been in the infirmary for a week; but I was better 
to-day, and there was no one else sick, so Sister 
went to the chapel to prayers with the other nuns. 
I just couldn’t stand it another minute; so I took 
her little shawl and went down the infirmary stairs 
and out the side door.” 

“And what did you want over here when you 
knew they’d all gone V 9 Jerry was plainly bewil¬ 
dered. 

“What did I want over here! If the one you 
loved best in the whole world had gone away and 
was never, never coming back,”—the big gray 
eyes once more overflowed, and the tears ran un¬ 
heeded down the thin little face,—“and if you 
were lonely enough to die, wouldn’t it be a little 
comfort to you to see the things that she had seen 
and used every day! I knew you were going to be 
here to take care of the place, so I didn’t think 
that the house was all locked up, and I went all 
the way around the porch and tried every window 
and door—but what is the use, anyway! She’s 


6 


THE SELWYNS m DIXIE 


gone, she’s gone, and she will never, never come 
back!” And the child bowed her head on the arm 
of the big chair in which she was seated, sobbing 
in a fashion most distressing to Jerry. 

“Which one of ’em is it you’re talkin’ about? 
and why ain’t she cornin’ back?” he hazarded 
gently. 

“Why, Mary,—of course. She—and Wilhel- 
mina came up—to say g—good-by, and she 
1—looked—s—so weak and pale—and—oh, I 
know very w—well they have t—taken her away 
b—because she is—go—going to die!” 

“Die, nothin’! If they’d thought that, they’d 
have stayed at home and let her die in peace. 
Travelin’ is too hard on sick folks to have ’em 
takin’ a long trip for nothin’. Of course she’s 
weak after bein’ laid up for a month; and pale— 
well, when she’s with Miss Wilhelmina, she al¬ 
ways does look like a lily o’ the valley alongside a 
chrysanthemum show. It’s the same with the two 
little ones. If my opinion was asked, I’d say it’s 
Miss Beth that’s goin’ to die young. Miss Mary 
was lively as a cricket when they were leavin’, 
though she did seem to hate to go in a way. It 
was that big, long fur cape of her mother’s that 
made her look so kind of lost like. She couldn’t 
wear her own coat on account of her arm, you 
know. Only for breakin’ that, she would have 
got well as fast as Miss Wilhelmina did. They 
both took their death o’ cold the night of the fire. 


A STOLEN VISIT 


7 


But take my word for it, they’ll all be back here 
just as soon as the real spring weather sets in; 
and the signs are for an early spring, too. Now, 
I’m goin’ to hunt up a coat or shawl or somethin’ 
to wrap you up in before you start back to the 
convent; and when you get there, you’d better go 
straight to bed and stay till you get rid of that 
cough, or we’ll like as not be havin’ a fun’ral 
nearer home.” 

“And while you are looking for something, will 
you let me go up to her room for just a minute, 
Jerry f It would be such a comfort, you know.” 

The gardener could not resist the wistful appeal. 
“Sure you can go up; but I’ll go along to switch 
on the lights. Then I’ll come down and hunt up 
that coat I saw hangin’ somewhere down here. 
Like as not it’s in the little room where they keep 
their rubbers and everyday things.” 

Left to herself, Florence moved about Mary’s 
room, giving loving little pats to the various 
pieces of furniture. The small articles from 
dresser, desk, and table had been put away; but 
the pictures on the walls had not been disturbed. 
Before a group of kodak pictures, she stood for 
some moments: then, pushing a chair beneath it, 
she climbed up and passionately kissed eveiy pic¬ 
ture in which Mary appeared. 

“Oh, if I could have just one of them,” she 
murmured. “Dear God, don’t let anything hap¬ 
pen to her—anyway, not until I have a chance to 


8 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


do something for her. , ’ And descending from the 
chair, she turned to the little oratory and gazed 
thoughtfully at the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes 
enshrined there. “If I could love you as Mary 
does and feel that you love me the way you must 
care for her since you have done such wonderful 
things for her! But I never heard of you until 
I came to Mary vale, and perhaps you don’t love 
anyone hut Catholics. But He does, so I should 
think you would, too. If I could feel that you are 
my Mother as Mary does, even though she has 
her mother on earth, I would never be lonely. I 
can’t remember my mother, and Grandmother 
didn’t understand very well. She was always good 
to me, but I couldn’t talk to her as I could to you 
if I thought you loved me. I wonder just how you 
do feel toward people like me. I know! I shall 
ask Mother Madeline.” 

Turning off the light, she crossed the hall and 
descended the stairs to the library, where Jerry 
was waiting with the coat. 

“There ain’t no hurry about bringin’ it back, 
miss.” 

“Why, that’s Wilhelmina’s every-day coat. It 
will make things ever so much easier for me. I 
can hang this in the dressing-room, and Sister will 
find it and send it up to the wardrobe to be put 
away with her other clothes. But if she were to 
find anything of Mary’s, she would be surprised 
and ask questions, because Mary hasn’t been a 


A STOLEN VISIT 


9 


boarder this year, yon know.” 

‘ ‘I see; and while I don’t want to hurry you off, 
I take it that you’d like to be back in the infirmary 
before the Sister gets there. It’s a quarter to six 
now, so you’ll just about make it. I’ve noticed 
that the lights in the chapel go out after the 
Angelus rings.” 

Florence donned the coat with alacrity, tied the 
little shawl about her head, and extended her hand 
to Jerry. “I can’t thank you enough for being 
so kind to me, and I’m sorry that I put you to so 
much trouble. Good-night, Jerry.” 

“No trouble, at all, miss; but I won’t say good¬ 
night till I see you safe and sound inside the door 
over there. This Janiwerry thaw’s made the 
walkin’ pretty bad, and the wind’s strong enough 
to blow you away.” 

“Oh, but Jerry,—” the little girl hesitated, 
fearing to hurt the gardener’s feelings. “While I 
would be glad to have you come, because every¬ 
thing is so bare and lonesome-looking, I’m afraid 
someone will see us. I’m not very big, and I think 
I could slip in better alone. Don’t you think so?” 

“We’ll manage that part all right. I’ll take 
you across the grounds here and through the or¬ 
chard over there; but I’ll keep a safe distance 
from the buildin’.” 

“Then everything will be all right. No one is 
in the east wing now except in the chapel. The 
auditorium is below it, and the gymnasium in the 


10 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


basement. The door I want is near the back of 
the west wing; so we shall have to go around 
behind the convent.’’ 

“I’ve a good mind to pick you up and carry you. 
You’re downright weak in the knees and shakin’ 
with chills.” Jerry grasped her arm more firmly 
as she slipped and stmnbled over the half-frozen 
ground. “Well, suit yourself,” he continued as 
Florence protested; “but you’ve got to promise to 
go to bed the minute you’ve had your supper.” 

“Yes, Jerry, I promise you that; and please 
promise me that you will never, never tell about 
this evening.” 

“Don’t let that worry you. I believe in lettin’ 
folks tell their own stories in their own way. Of 
course, I couldn’t make such a promise if you 
hadn’t said you’ll tell the Mother over here. 
You’re a sick child; and I’d feel mighty guilty if 
I didn’t let someone know about the risk you’ve 
run.” 

“I didn’t think of it as a risk,” meekly re¬ 
sponded Florence. “I couldn’t think of anything 
but Mary. You don’t know how glad I am that I 
talked to you about her, Jerry. I feel now that 
maybe she will come back—” 

“Sure she will! She’ll come back stronger and 
heartier than you’ll be if you try any more such 
Join’s as you’ve been up to this evening.” 

Florence gave a weak little laugh. “I think I 
had better say good-night to you here, Jerry. You 


A STOLEN VISIT 


11 


see, this space between the wings is quite bright 
from the light shining through the windows.’’ 

“ All right,if you’re sure you can get across to the 
other side without failin’. And mum’s the word,” 
he sent after her in a loud whisper, adding under 
his breath as he stood watching until she had dis¬ 
appeared within the doorway, 4 ‘But that don’t 
keep me from seein’ the good Mother and tellin’ 
her she might do worse than call as soon as ever 
she can at the infirm’ry, where she’ll hear some¬ 
thin’ to somebody’s advantage.” 


CHAPTER II 

SOUTHWARD BOUND 

At the same hour, Mary, snugly settled on the 
lounge in the drawing-room of the sleeper, opened 
her eyes after a long, long nap. For some minutes 
she lay watching the telegraph poles flit by in the 
rapidly deepening twilight. Then her attention 
was attracted by the murmur of voices which oc¬ 
casionally rose above the rumble and roar of the 
train. She wondered what they were talking 
about—her father, mother, and little sisters, who, 
with Mrs. Marvin, Wilhelmina, and all the little 
Marvins occupied so many sections beyond the 
door of the drawing-room that her uncle had 
laughingly proposed chartering the whole sleeper. 
Phil and Harry Marvin had been obliged to return 
to school the Monday after New Year’s Day; and 
Joe, who, since his thirteenth birthday, had se¬ 
cretly chafed at the idea of being any longer 
taught by the family governess, had, to his great 
satisfaction, been allowed to accompany them. 
After an immense amount of coaxing, the two 
eldest boys had won their father’s reluctant con¬ 
sent to their leaving the Catholic college which 
they had been attending, for a nonsectarian school 
in Virginia, highly recommended by some of 
their Georgia neighbors. Mr. Marvin had accom¬ 
panied his sons to the new school, intending to 
rejoin the party at Richmond. 

12 


SOUTHWARD BOUXD 


13 


Mary smiled contentedly as she thought over 
the events of the past two weeks—such happy, 
happy weeks in spite of her inability to take part 
in the sleighing and skating parties and the nu¬ 
merous other jollifications by which the guests 
from the South had been entertained at Bird-a- 
Lea. Then had come the bustle and excitement 
of packing for the visit to Sunnymead, as the 
Marvin plantation was called; and to Cedar Bidge, 
Mr. Selwyn’s old home in Virginia. It was not 
without a pang, however, that the little girl hade 
farewell to beautiful Bird-a-Lea, where she had 
spent the four happiest months of her life; and it 
was a matter of far deeper regret that her uncle 
could not accompany the family. 

“Of course, Wilhelmina,” she had explained to 
her little friend the night before their departure, 
“Aunt Mary will miss us, too; but she has all the 
Sisters at Maryvale to keep her company. With 
Uncle Frank it is different. He will live in the 
apartments at his office, you know, and Liza will 
keep house for him and take good care of him as 
she did all that time when Father and Mother 
were away. Still, I know just how lonely it will be 
for him every evening when he sits down to dinner 
all by himself without Father to talk over the 
questions of the day with him, and Mother or me 
to pour his tea.” And Mary’s eyes filled as the 
doleful picture rose before her. 

“If I were you, Mary, I would just make him 
come with us. ” 


14 


THE 8ELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“But how can I make him?” 

“Hm! I would soon find a way. Just before 
the train pulls out to-morrow afternoon, jerk all 
those bandages off your arm, and then he will have 
to stay to fix it up again, and we’ll have him.” 

“Yes, for a little while. But even if he were to 
stay on the train until we reach Philadelphia, he 
would get off there and come back to New York 
to-morrow night. No, I think the very best way 
will be to beg and beg him at the last minute to¬ 
morrow afternoon. He can wire to Liza to pack 
his trunk and send it after him.” 

And this was what the little girl had done that 
afternoon when Doctor Carlton, after seeing that 
each member of the very large party was comfort¬ 
ably settled in the sleeper, had returned to the 
drawing-room for a last word with his Mary. 

“Uncle, dear, why, why, why can’t you come 
now instead of waiting for six whole weeks or 
more? And you say you won’t be able to stay but 
a few days even then. There are hundreds of doc¬ 
tors in New York, ever so many of them so poor 
that they would be only too anxious to earn a little 
money by taking care of your patients for you. 
Indeed, I should think you would be glad to do an 
act of charity by putting a little practice in their 
way.” 

“So I would; especially when so tempting a 
reward is held out to me. But what about my 
patients? are they to have no voice in the matter? 


SOUTHWARD BOUND 


15 


After calling me in to attend them, they would 
surely have a right to object were I to turn them 
over to someone not of their own choosing. How 
would you have felt if, after your accident, I had 
gone off on a pleasure trip and left you to the care 
of a stranger, eh?” 

“But you are sending me hundreds of miles 
away though I am not well yet. Neither are 
Father and Mother and Beth. I think I shall do 
as Wilhelmina said—pull all these bandages off 
my arm; but I shall wait until I get down there 
instead of doing it here. Then you will have to 
come down to fix me up again. I suppose my arm 
will pain dreadfully; but that will be easier to 
bear than to be thinking of you all alone every 
single evening with no one to play the things you 
like best, and no one to make you take care of 
yourself—for you know right well, sir, you are 
always taking care of everyone else, and never 
think about yourself at all—and—and—Uncle, 
you know you will be just as lonely without us as 
we shall be without you!” 

“Indeed, I know that only too well.” A pathetic 
smile flitted across the Doctor’s face. “And were 
I to consult my own inclinations, I should never 
allow you to leave Bird-a-Lea. When a man of my 
disposition, after some years of lonely bachelor¬ 
hood, finds himself again enjoying the peace and 
contentment of family life, I assure you, dearie, 
that it is no joke for him to be obliged to return 


16 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


to his former mode of existence. However, as 
there is no other way out of the difficulty, you 
and I must make the best of it. I fear that we 
have already delayed too long. I should have 
packed you all off the first of December, but sim¬ 
ply could not screw up courage enough to do so. ,, 

“'The first of December! Why, Uncle! think 
how terrible it would have been if no one had 
been at Bird-a-Lea the night of the fire! The east 
wing, perhaps the whole convent, would have 
burned to the ground!” 

“Very true. I did not look at the matter in 
that light, but have been reproaching myself for 
having brought so much suffering upon you 
through my selfishness—” 

“Selfishness! You call it selfishness to arrange 
things so we could all have a most beautiful 
Christmas together? Indeed, Uncle, I think 1 am 
the one to blame for all the trouble and every¬ 
thing. I never manage things right; but all I 
could think of that night was to ring the big bell 
so that Father Hartley would come in time to take 
the Blessed Sacrament from the Chapel to some 
safe place, and so that the men from the village 
would come to help put out the fire.” 

“I think you managed wonderfully well on that 
occasion. However faulty in your own opinion 
your methods may be, you always ‘gits dah jes* de 
same,’ as Tom would say; and since you yourself 
are invariably the one to suffer the ill effects of 


SOUTHWARD BOUND 


17 


your stupidity, as you are pleased to call it, who, 
pray, has any right to complain? But what was 
that threat you made about your arm a while ago? 
Let me hear of your attempting to remove one 
of those bandages, young lady! I have written to 
Doctor Blackwell, the Marvins’ old family phy¬ 
sician, who will keep an eye on you until you 
leave fo" Cedar Bidge; so waste no time or money 
on telegrams to me, my dear. But all joking aside, 
do be careful of that poor arm for a little while 
longer. It is doing so well that I have every 
reason to hope that you will sutler no permanent 
inconvenience from your accident. It would, in¬ 
deed, be a pity if, through carelessness, you were 
to disable it for life. What would I ever do with¬ 
out my little musician ?” 

Mary laughed. “I should have to play all 
left-handed pieces. But really, Uncle, I shall be 
as careful of it as if it were made of egg-shells.” 

“And take your tonic faithfully and live out¬ 
doors as much as possible. I hope to find a little 
color in those pale cheeks when I see you again.” 

“I shall scrub them every morning and night 
with my nail-brush and pinch them well before 
and after meals so that when you come down you 
will say to Father, ‘Who in the world is that rosy, 
healthy-looking child running about the place 
swinging a base-ball bat?’ ” 

“Well, hardly!” laughed the Doctor. “Six 
weeks spent in even that wonderful Georgia of 


18 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


which Wilhelmina never tires of boasting, will 
scarcely work such a transformation.” 

“But I am going to ‘make a most beauty, grand 
s’prise for you/ as Berta would say; and if my 
cheeks are not—I won’t say as round as hers— 
as rosy as even you would like them to be, I agree 
to take all the pure Norwegian cod-liver oil or any 
other horrid stuff you prescribe. But you must 
let me know the exact day when you will come.” 

“Hm! Wish to get out your paint box in time, 
do you? No use. I shall carry a wet sponge to 
test all suspicious-looking roses.” 

“Never you mind, Uncle! My roses won’t wash 
off. But you are telling me all that I must do, and 
you haven’t said one word about taking care of 
yourself. Beally, Uncle, that is one thing that 
you don’t know how to do. I wish you would 
learn.” 

“But why waste precious time and energy when 
I have two such efficient guardian angels as you 
and Mother?” 

“But we won’t be with you now. By the way, 
sir, it seems to me that your rubbers spend most 
of their time in the little room where we children 
hang our every-day coats and hats.” 

The Doctor chuckled. “I shouldn’t be at all 
surprised if that is where they are at present. 
Never mind; I shall invest in a new pair on my 
way back to the office, unless you think rubber 
boots would be better; and I shall purchase the 


SOUTHWARD BOUND 


19 


very largest umbrella that I can find. If it will 
ease your mind any, I am quite ready to promise 
to wear the former and carry the latter opened, 
even when the streets need sprinkling.’ ’ 

“Now, Uncle! Nobody expects you to make a 
goose of yourself. Oh, please don’t go yet!” She 
laid a detaining hand on his arm as he took out 
his watch and rose to his feet. “I have something 
so important to ask you. Do sit down for just a 
little minute.” 

“Well, what is this important matter for the 
sake of which I must risk being carried off to 
the next station?” The Doctor resumed his seat. 

“I wish it would take me so long to tell it that 
we would be away down in Georgia before I had 
finished. You will go out soon to see Aunt Mary, 
won’t you, Uncle ?” 

“I shall probably run out to Bird-a-Lea Sunday 
to see that Jerry has carried out instructions; 
and, of course, I shall go over to Maryvale. Why? 
is there something you wish me to tell Aunt 
Mary?” 

“No, Uncle; it is about Florence. I—could you 
—would you mind, Uncle—” 

“Could I, would I, should I,—what is it all 
about? The minutes are flying, you know.” 

“When you go out to see Aunt Mary, would 
you mind asking her to call Florence to the parlor 
for a little while? Now that her grandmother is 
dead, she hasn’t a relative that she knows of in 


20 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


the whole world. She seems to think so much of 
ns, and I know that it will make her glad if yon 
ask to see her. This morning, Wilhelmina and I 
went np to the infirmary to say good-bye to her. 
She has been there a week trying to get over a 
dreadful cold, and she looked so lonely.” 

“By all means I shall ask to see her, not only 
Sunday, but every time I go out to Mary vale.” 

“Oh, that will be lovely! And will you take her 
some candy or fruit?” 

“To be sure I shall. You mean the little gray¬ 
eyed owl who knitted me that beautiful silk muf¬ 
fler for Christmas, don’t you? Your friends at 
Maryvale are so numerous that I have some diffi¬ 
culty in remembering their names.” 

“Yes, Uncle, that is Florence—Florence Berke¬ 
ley—the one you and Father like to speak French 
with.” 

“And English, too. That child is wonderfully 
well informed for one so young. Her grand¬ 
mother must have been a very intellectual old lady. 
Indeed, I shall enjoy a little visit with Florence, 
I assure you.” 

“0 Uncle, I am so glad that I asked you! I 
was afraid you might not have time. Just imagine 
how happy she will be, and how she will look for¬ 
ward to your visits. Florence thinks that you are 
perfectly grand!" 

“Indeed! Another inducement for calling on 
her!” 


SOUTHWARD BOUND 


21 


“And she has always thought so. Before she 
ever met you, even before I had told her one thing 
about you, she had you all fixed up exactly right 
in her mind.” 

“Well, well! A miniature Sherlock Holmes, is 
she?” 

“Sherlock Holmes? Oh, now I remember! He 
is the man who wrote The Acrobat of the Break¬ 
fast Table/ 9 

“The what?" 

“Now, Uncle, you needn’t be laughing. I’m 
sure that is right. His picture and the names of 
his books are in that game of Authors that Wil- 
helmina got for Christmas. But Sherlock doesn’t 
sound quite right for his first name. I think it be¬ 
gins with an 0—Oscar—Oswald— Oliver; that’s it. 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. Have we that book of 
his, Uncle? I imagine that it is just as funny as 
it can be. An acrobat is a man who can turn 
somersaults and stand on his head and do all sorts 
of things, isn’t he? But I don’t see how in the 
world he could act like that on a breakfast table. ’ ’ 

“Neither do I. Better play that game again 
and take a closer look at your Acrobat of the 
Breakfast Table. Ha! ha! ha! Ask your father 
whether he has ever read that particular work of 
Oliver Wendell Holmes—” 

“All aboard!” from without interrupted him. 

“Good-bye, pet. Take care of yourself and 


22 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


scribble me a line now and then with your left 
hand. ’’ 

“I shall, Uncle; and when you come, I hope I 
shall be able to make up for this stingy half hug 
that I’m giving you. Oh, I wish, wish, ivish you 
could come now! Can’t you, Uncle V 9 pleaded the 
child, clinging to him with one little arm. 

“Impossible, dear; but six weeks will pass very 
quickly. Good-bye, little girl! ’ ’ 

“Good-bye, dear, dear Uncle!” And he was 
gone. 

And now, as Mary lay back on the pillows, gaz¬ 
ing out at the dim, fleeting landscape, there rose 
before her the picture of the little library with its 
lonely occupant awaiting Liza’s summons to 
dinner. 

“Poor, dear Uncle,” she murmured. “I shall 
write him a letter this very evening and ask 
Father to send it by special delivery so he will 

get it before he goes to bed.But no, that 

won’t do; because by the time it reaches New 
York and goes to the postoffice, it will be so late 
that the messenger boy might have to wake Uncle 
in the middle of the night. I shall send it the ordi¬ 
nary way, and he will have it for breakfast.” 

The door swung open a little, and, catching a 
glimpse of Wilhelmina, she wondered what was 
keeping her little friend so quiet. Then a figure 
obstructed her view, and the next moment Mrs. 
Selwvn stood in the doorway. 



SOUTHWARD BOUND 


23 


“Come in, Mother, Pm awake.” 

“I have peeped in several times, but you seemed 
to be asleep. It is time to brush up a little for 
dinner. Yours will be brought in here, and Father 
will take care of Mary Elizabeth and have his 
dinner later with Wilhelmina. She wishes to wait 
for him as she has not quite finished a book that 
she is reading. It must be very interesting, for 
she has been poring over it the greater part of 
the afternoon. Yes, Beth, come in, dear.” Mrs. 
Selwyn held out her hand to the child, who had 
hesitatingly pushed the door a little wider open. 
“Will you tell Berta it is time to have her face 
and hands washed before dinner?” 


CHAPTER III 


FOUR PROPER HOURS 

“I wonder whether you and I can find room in 
here, Mary Elizabeth.” Mr. Selwyn with the 
Marvin baby in his arms entered the little room. 

“Yes, yes, Father, come in!” cried Mary. 

“Still primping, eh?” He tweaked Berta’s 
ear. “I have reserved tables in the dining-car, 
Mother, and the sooner you take possession of 
them the better.” 

“We are ready now, Father. Come, little 
folks.” 

“Put Mary ’Lisbeth right here beside me, 
Father. These pillows will keep her from bump¬ 
ing herself against the wall.” 

“I think I had better hold her until you have 
had your dinner, Mary. I have arranged to have 
it brought in at once. Here is the first course. ’ ’ 

A waiter with a table appeared in the doorway. 

“Father, have you your fountain pen with you? 
I didn’t expect to write letters on the train, so 
Mother packed mine.” 

“You are quite welcome to mine; but are you 
sufficiently expert with your left hand to write a 
letter? how about dictating it to me?” 

“Oh, that will be ever so much easier for me. 
I should like to send a little letter to Uncle so that 
he will have it the first thing in the morning. He 
must be so lonely tonight without us. And then 
24 


FOUR PROPER HOURS 


25 


there are some things that I wish to ask Aunt 
Mary to do. I was thinking about them before 
Mother came in. You know Florence, Father. 
She isn’t well, and she has been in the infirmary 
for a whole week. She does enjoy books and 
games and puzzles so much that I am going to ask 
Aunt Mary to let her go over and amuse herself 
with mine as soon as she is able to be out.” 

“But the child could not remain in the house 
more than a few minutes, because it will not be 
heated, you know.” 

“I thought of that; but couldn’t Aunt Mary tell 
Jerry to turn on the heater in my room and have 
it warm for Florence ? Of course, she would have 
to let him know when to expect her. ’ ’ 

“Yes, that can be very easily arranged. Your 
little friend is a rather lonely child, isn’t she?” 

“Yes, Father. You see she had never been with 
children until she came to Maryvale last year. I 
do wish the girls would try to know her better. 
She is the dearest little thing; but they don’t like 
her old-fashioned ways.” 

“Well, I am sure that your plan wifi make her 
happy. There is no reason why Jerry cannot take 
her and some of the other little girls for an oc¬ 
casional sleighride.” 

“Oh, put that in the letter, too, Father.” 

Wilhelmina entered the room just in time to 
hear the last remark. 

“You don’t mean to say that you're writing 


26 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


letters before you get there, Mary! You haven’t 
arrived yet; so how can you say you had a safe 
journey and all such things that people expect to 
hear! I know I’ll have to write letters after I’m 
home a day or two. There are Mother Madeline 
and Sister Austin and Sister Dominic and my 
other teachers—dear, me! each one of them can 
hardly expect a separate letter. I’d lose all the 
strength I’ve gained, and Uncle Frank would be 
as cross as two sticks. I should think I could say, 
'My dear Teachers,’ and let it go at that. Hope 
none of them will answer, because then I would 
have to write again.” 

"If Aunt Mary and the Sisters could hear you, 
they would be highly complimented,” laughed Mr. 
Selwyn. 

"I wonder whether you feel that way when you 
write to me, Wilhelmina.” Mary’s eyes danced. 

"Well, Mary! As if I could! When I write to 
you or to Uncle Frank, I say just what I would 
if I were talking to you; and I know you won’t 
mind if I make a few mistakes. But with Mother 
Madeline and the Sisters, I have to keep my eyes 
glued on the dictionary nearly all the time, and 
I feel that I must be as prim and proper as—as 
Aunt Wilhelmina! You haven’t met her, so you 
have no idea how proper she is. I simply can’t 
believe that she is Father’s really, truly sister. 
Grandmother Marvin must have adopted her be¬ 
fore Father was old enough to know the differ¬ 
ence. And then to name me after her!” 


FOUR PROPER HOURS 


27 


“But why should you feel prim and proper 
while writing to Aunt Mary and your teachers! 
This is your third year at Maryvale; and, as you 
have a very sociable disposition, you can scarcely 
feel timid with them. I assure you they would 
enjoy the sort of letter you write to Mary and 
Uncle Prank far more than the prim and proper 
kind. To be perfectly candid, I cannot conceive 
of your being able to write the latter; and since 
you have discovered the true art of letter writing, 
which consists in writing to your friends as you 
would speak to them, by all means cultivate it. 
No one can expect a little girl of your age to com¬ 
pose a letter absolutely free from mistakes. Do 
you commence these prim and proper epistles 
with, *1 take my pen in hand to write you these 
few lines to let you know that I am well, hoping 
you are the same’?” 

“It’s not quite so bad as that, Uncle Bob. But 
I think I shall write the easy way to the Sisters; 
and if they save the letters to show me all the 
mistakes in them, I’ll tell them what you’ve said 
about letter-writing. You are one person, at least, 
that they can’t call to time.” 

“Very well. I shall shoulder all the responsi¬ 
bility. Where is the book that you were so anxious 
to finish?” 

“I can’t say that I was anxious to finish it, 
Uncle Rob. I was anxious to find even one page 
in it worth reading. Of all the dry old things! 


28 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


And I chose it because I thought from its name 
that it would be funny. You, see, Uncle Rob, now 
that I have a little sister, I must try to be more 
civilized. After a year or two, Mother will be 
holding me up as a model to Mary ’Lisbeth just 
as she does Phil to the boys; so I’ll have to begin 
to practice right away if I ever expect to be a 
model in anything. I have often and often pitied 
poor Phil; but now my turn has come. Pve sowed 
my wild oats and will have to settle down. It 
didn’t matter so much when the rest of the family 
were boys; but now it’s altogether different; and 
if my prayers are answered the way I wish them 
to be, I’ll surely have to mind my p’s and q’s.” 

“How is that?” 

“Oh, I forgot that you don’t know about it, 
Uncle Rob. I’m praying for six more little sisters 
so that we’ll be even with the boys. But I began 
to tell you about that silly book. At the very last 
minute before we left Bird-a-Lea, I remembered 
that I would need something to help me to be dig¬ 
nified ; and Aunt ’Lisbeth said to take any book I 
liked from the library. She did tell me the exact 
bookcase to look in; but there was so much going 
on that I opened the one nearest the door and took 
out a good thick book with a funny name. But 
though I’ve turned over every page in it, I 
haven’t found a thing to laugh at. Why, at the 
end the young man is left standing on the bridge, 
looking out over the water! He hadn’t even sense 


FOUR PROPER HOURS 


29 


enough to jump in. Not that I like to read a 
book about susancide and murder and such things; 
but no one cares for a book where the hero is such 
a stick as that one. I thought the story would be 
about a man who had chills and did all sorts of 
funny things to keep warm; or else about a dog¬ 
house that was cold, and perhaps the poor dog 
did tricks to warm himself.” 

“A man who had chills or a cold dog-house.” 
Mr. Selwyn looked puzzled. “I thought I knew 
the titles of all the books in the library, but I have 
no recollection of one that would suggest such 
ideas. How did you pronounce the name!” 

“I haven’t tried to pronounce it, Uncle Bob. 
The nearest I can come to it is 4 Kennel Chilly,’ 
but there are more letters in the second word. A 
duke or a lord—yes, it was Lord Bulwarks Some- 
one-or-other who wrote the book. ’ ’ 

“Lord Bulwarks—you don’t mean to say that 
you have spent the afternoon pouring over one of 
Bulwer-Lytton’s novels!” Mr. Selwyn threw back 
his head, laughing heartily. “Well, well, well! 
You poor child! You are surely going beyond 
your depth in your efforts to be dignified. And 
Kenelm Chillingly no less! Aunt Mary and your 
teachers will be properly impressed if you tell 
them how you have spent the afternoon.” 

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Uncle Bob, and 
don’t you, either. Dear me! I’m just worn out 
and starved besides.” 


30 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Help yourself here,” said Mary sympathet¬ 
ically. “I have finished all but dessert. Some 
fruit and bread and butter can’t spoil your dinner. 
Father, may we give Mary ’Lisbeth some ice¬ 
cream—just a little taste !” 

“Oh, yes, Uncle Rob! It’s plain vanilla, so it 
can’t hurt her. Just some of the melted part.” 

“I fear your mother might have some objec¬ 
tion.” Mr. Selwyn was decidedly dubious. “Well, 
a few drops—no more,” as Wilhelmina held the 
spoon to the baby’s lips. 

“Look! isn’t she darling! She likes it. See 
how she sticks her little tongue out for more. 
There, precious, that’s all you can have. Hurry 
and eat it, Mary, so she won’t see it and cry for 
more.” 

“She will probably do that in any case. Say¬ 
ing, ‘All gone,’ to little folks as young as she is has 
no special effect. Let me have that apple to roll 
around to amuse her and make her forget the 
ice-cream; and you had better take some bread 
and butter as Mary suggested.” 


CHAPTER IV 

SUNNYMEAD 

The following morning found the train rushing 
onward through a driving rain, which dashed 
against the windows, shutting out even the faintest 
glimpse of the landscape. The two mothers could 
not repress a sigh at the thought of the long, long 
day before them, during which their ingenuity 
would be taxed to the utmost to provide amuse¬ 
ment for the restless little people, who, now that 
the novelty of the trip had somewhat worn off, 
were beginning to question, “ Shall we soon be 
home, Mother?” “Is we almost there, Mother?” 
“Will it stop raining soon, Daddy, so we can see 
nice things out the window, same as yesterday ?” 

“If it would only let up until we get home, it 
wouldn’t be half so bad,” growled Frank to Bob 
and Freddie. 

“Yes,” agreed Bob, “I’d be willing to have it 
rain for a week straight then. We’d have some¬ 
thing to do with all the books and games that we 
got for Christmas and didn’t have time to do 
more than look at. Weren’t we the chumps not 
to bring a few of them with us?” 

“Well, it thertainly theemed thort of thilly to 
take bookth and gameth to Bird-a-Lea, ’cauth 
Willie hath alwayth thaid Mary hath loadth of 
thuch thingth. Anyway, the valitheth were tho 
chuck full that Mothah couldn’t thqueeth a thingle 
book or game into one of them.” 

31 


32 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


Fortunately, all but two or three of the pas¬ 
sengers had left the sleeper at Richmond so that 
our little party had the car almost to themselves. 
By noon, to the great delight of all, the sky showed 
signs of clearing; and after luncheon the younger 
members of both families were prevailed upon to 
take a nap with the hope that the sun would be 

shining when they awoke. 

***** 

“There are the Marvin rigs. Must be the fam¬ 
ily is expected home this evening.” The station 
master rose from his creaking armchair and 
strolled across the room to the telegraph oper¬ 
ator’s desk. 

“Yes, didn’t I tell you that a message came 
yesterday afternoon for Miss Walker? She’s the 
governess. They say she gets a mighty fine 
salary; but I bet she earns every cent of it trying 
to teach that bunch of live wires. What’s the 
idea of the wagonette, I wonder? The carriage 
looks big enough to hold what’s left of them. The 
three oldest boys must be in school by this time— 
Joe told me he was going with his brothers.” 

“Well, those youngsters need plenty of room, 

you know. Train’s coming!.Say, look at 

this! How many kids has Marvin, anyway? 
They’re piling out of that sleeper thick as flies.” 

“Eight boys and the girl that’s away at school 
and the new baby,—a girl, too, I heard. The 
girl at school was mixed up in a fire and was too 



SUNNYMEAD 


33 


sick after it to come home for the holidays; so 
the whole family went North to spend Christmas 
with her.” 

“Well, she’s home from school, all right, 
and——by jinks! I count three more girls! Won¬ 
der if Marvin has taken to adopting a few. Seems 
to me I’d be satisfied with ten of my own. Hold 
on! There’s a strange lady and gentleman, too.” 

“Where have I seen that yellow-haired girl 
before! I have it! She was here visiting the 
Marvins two summers ago. And those must be her 
folks that were shipwrecked and supposed to be 
lost. Don’t you remember the cablegram from 
France last summer saying some of them were 
found at Lourdes! and another a few weeks later 

about the father! Selkirk-no, Sel-Selwyn! 

That’s the name. He’s a big hanker in New York. 
To hear my boy, Bill, tell about the excitement at 
Sunnymead when he delivered that second mes¬ 
sage-why, he came back a heap faster than he 

went; tumbled off his wheel and dashed in here 
with his eyes almost popping out of his head, 
and declared that a man who had been dead for 
more than two years had come to life again. 
Don’t you remember! Later that day I got the 
straight of the story, or at least as much as he 
knew, from young Phil. Then the whole family 
went to New York to meet the steamer the Sel- 
wyns were coming on. I must say the Marvins 
were as happy over it all as if the Selwyns were 



34 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


some of their own family. And they’re no kin at 
all, though the youngsters call the grown folks 
uncle and aunt. ,, 

Unconscious of the interest they were arousing, 
our party moved towards the waiting vehicles. 
The ladies and the little girls found room in the 
carriage, while the hoys tumbled into the family 
wagonette with Mr. Marvin and Mr. Selwyn. 

“Just five miles more and we shall be home,” 
said Wilhelmina when all were settled and the 
carnage rolling swiftly along the hard, white 
road. 

“This road leads straight out to Sunnymead 
without a turn, Mother,” explained Maiy, “and 
there are the most beautiful homes on both sides 
of it. Sunnymead is farthest from town. Quite 
a distance beyond it are the pine woods, and then 
comes the sea.” 

For some moments Wilhelmina silently studied 
Mary’s face. Then, “You won’t mind looking at 
the sea now, Mary, will you? do you remember 
how you felt about it when you were here before?” 

“Indeed I do, Wilhelmina. At that time I 
thought Mother and the twinnies were somewhere 
away down in it; but now, everything is different; 
and I hope we shall take that drive through the 
woods while we are here. I can almost smell the 
pines and hear them whispering.” The little girl 
watched eagerly for landmarks which had grown 
familiar to her during her former visit; and when 


SUNNYMEAD 


35 


four miles of the distance had been covered, she 
called her mother’s attention to a narrow road 
running northward. “That leads to Ephraim’s 
little farm, Mother. Father will go to see him 
the very first thing, I know. He is the old darkey 
who, in spite of Aunt Bertha, stayed at Cedar 
Bidge to welcome you and Father when you went 
there on your wedding trip. Don’t you remem¬ 
ber!” 

“Yes, dear, I could not forget that faithful old 
man; and I shall certainly go with Father to see 
him. ’ ’ 

A few moments later Wilhelmina exclaimed: 
“Here we are, Aunt ’Lisbeth. Sunnymead begins 
at this stone wall. Sam will whistle soon for 
Wash to open the gates. My, but it’s good to get 

home!.There’s Wash! G eorge Washington 

Johnson.” And she and Mary waved to the black 
boy who had swung open the big iron gates and 
stood staring at the strangers in the carriage. 

“Welcome home, Missus! Howdy, Miss Willie! 
Why, dah’s Miss May-ree, sho’s yo’ bohn! Howdy, 
Miss May-ree!” 

“Wash lives with his mother in that little stone 
house just inside the gates, Mother,” explained 
Mary; and then her eyes wandered over the beau¬ 
tiful grounds until the big, old-fashioned house 
with its wide, airy verandas came into view. Miss 
Walker was on the steps to welcome them, and 
the servants, Lyda, Jinny, and old Aunt Chloe 



36 


THIS SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


stood in the doorway, smiling and courtesying. 

The dinner which followed was a jolly meal, 
though Jack did fall asleep before it was over, 
and Dick and Berta and Beth had to wink very 
hard so as not to follow his example. 

A few days later, Mary received the following 
letter from her aunt in reply to the one which 
her father had written for her on the train: 

“Dear Mary, 

“Florence was delighted to have word from you 
so soon and to hear of your plans to give her so 
much pleasure. I fear, however, that it will be 
some time before she will be able to carry them 
out. The cold from which she was suffering when 
you left became so much worse that the doctor 
fears it may result in a serious illness. But we 
shall hope for the best; and as soon as she is able 
to read, Sister Austin and I shall go over to 
Bird-a-Lea for a number of your books and games 
so that she will have something to amuse her while 
she is obliged to remain in the infirmary. 

“Jerry had a telephone message from Uncle 
Frank, the result being a beautiful bouquet which 
he brings Florence every morning. She is almost 
as fond of flowers as you are, and insists on having 
them placed before the statue of our Blessed 
Mother in the infirmary. 

“I expect a visit from Uncle Frank Sunday 
afternoon,” 


SUNNYMEAD 


37 


Then followed messages to the other members 
of the family and to Mr. and Mrs. Marvin. 

Mary went at once to Wilhelmina. “Will you 
write a letter to Florence for me if I tell you what 
to say, Wilhelmina! She is very sick, and I can’t 
write with my left hand, you know. We shall make 
it a long, long letter, telling her everything that 
has happened since we left Bird-a-Lea.” 

This was the first of the many letters which 
Wilhelmina wrote for Mary to her little friend— 
letters describing Simnymead; the long drives 
through the surrounding country, particularly the 
one, now Mary’s favorite, through the woods to 
the sea; the visit to Ephraim’s little farm, and 
the faithful old darkey’s delight at once more 
meeting his beloved “Massa Bob”; the books 
which she and Wilhelmina were reading together. 

But poor little Florence could not answer these 
letters. Pneumonia had set in as a result of her 
stolen visit to Bird-a-Lea; and it was through 
Mother Madeline and Doctor Carlton that Mary 
heard from the little invalid. They thought it 
wiser that she should not know that Florence’s 
heart had been much weakened by her illness; and 
Mary was often puzzled because the little girl was 
sick so long and one or other of the boarders 
should be obliged to read aloud the books which 
she knew Florence would much better enjoy read¬ 
ing to herself. 

Sometimes, too, Mary felt perplexed in regard 


38 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


to WilKefmina. She had feared that her helpless 
arm and general lack of strength would, in a 
measure, interfere with her little friend’s pleas- 
sure; and to prevent this, she repeatedly urged 
Wilhelmina to join the boys in their games while 
she remained on the porch with an interesting 
book. But this Wilhelmina refused to do; and 
Mary wondered whether she, too, still felt the 
effects of her illness. Not once since her return 
home had she mounted her beloved Dixie; and 
when Frank and Bob tried one morning to per¬ 
suade her to drive to town with them, she was al¬ 
most harsh in her refusal, though Mary had seen 
the eager light in her eyes as the pony cart came 
around the driveway. After the boys had driven 
away, Mary made up her mind to speak. 

1 ‘ Wilhelmina, I do hope it’s not on my account 
that you are giving up all the things you like to do. 
I don’t expect that, you know, and I would feel 
ever so much better if you would go ahead and do 
just as you would do if I were not here.” 

“ That’s exactly what I am doing, Mary. I’m 
not giving up a single thing for you. Indeed, I 
don’t know what I would do if you were not here.” 

But as the days passed, Wilhelmina became 
more and more restless, and a wistful expression 
crept into her dark eyes. The old, fun-loving, 
mischievous, care-free Wilhelmina was gone; and 
Mary felt that the change was not for the better. 


CHAPTER V 

A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS 

“Yes, Bob, I mean it! Every, single, solitary 
word! For two whole weeks at Bird-a-Lea, you 
and Frank could behave yourselves and show that 
you’ve had some bringing up; but the minute you 
got home, you seemed to forget all your man¬ 
ners.” And Wilhelmina, seated in a porch chair, 
cast a withering look upon the boy at the foot of 
the side steps. 

“Gee whiz, Willie! you can’t expect a fellow to 
act as if he’s dressed up all the time. Nobody 
wants us to behave the same in overalls as we do in 
our best suits.” 

“Hm! I wonder how many times Mother has 
said that a gentleman hasn’t two sets of manners 
-one for company and the other for his fam¬ 
ily.” 

“Who’s said anything about our manners! I 
bet Uncle Rob and Aunt ’Lisbeth would say that 
ours are just as good here as they were at Bird- 
a-Lea. We surely had a jolly good time there 
even though we were comp’ny, and we weren’t 
always thinking about our manners, either. And 
when a fellow’s in his own home, he ought to be 
able to do a few things that he wouldn’t do when 
he’s away visiting.” 

“That all depends on what the things are. If 
you would be satisfied to play your tricks on me 
39 



THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


40 

or the boys, it wouldn’t be so bad; but I draw the 
line when you begin on my guest.’’ 

“Huh! your guest! Mary is just as much our 
guest as she is yours. Just because she’s a girl 
and goes to the same school as you do and invites 
you to her home doesn’t make her any more your 
guest than ours. And I’ve told you fifty times 
that we didn’t bring that snake here to play tricks 
on anybody, least of all on Mary. And what’s 
more, she knows we didn’t. It was different from 
any snake we had ever seen, and we just thought 
both of you would like to see it, too.” 

“But you know perfectly well how Mary hates 
snakes and bugs and all such things.” 

“We never thought of that. If we had remem¬ 
bered, we would have come and told her about 
that snake, and then she needn’t have looked at 
it if she didn’t want to. I don’t see why she hates 
such things when they’re so int’rusting. But I 
s’pose it’s because she’s a girl. Beth’s just like 
her. They can’t help being scary. But Berta’s 

a good sport-more like you-1 mean like you 

used to be. Say, Willie, what’s the matter with 
you, anyway! Frank and I have been wondering 
ever since we came home; and after we went to 
bed last night, we tried to decide whether you’re 
different because you were one of the heroesses 
at the fire, or because you were so sick after it. 
But we can’t see why you couldn’t help to keep the 
convent from burning down, and why you couldn’t 




A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS 


41 


save Mary from freezing to death, or why you 
couldn't be sick and get over it without turning 
into a prim, prissy, proper old maid like Aunt 
W ilhelmina-’ 9 

His sister bounced out of her chair, her eyes 
blazing. “Robert Lee Marvin! How dare you 
say such a thing!” 

“Because it's true.” Bob grinned wickedly. 
Realizing that he had scored a point, he had no 
intention of losing it, so continued, “But it’s only 
half of the truth. The whole is that you're a hun¬ 
dred times worse than she is, because she's grown 
up, and it's natural for her to be prim and proper; 
but you’re not even two whole years older than 
we are-” 

“Bob, I think you're just dreadful! I am not 
like Aunt Wilhelmina, and I never was, and I 
never will be! It's bad enough to be named after 
her-” 

“That's exactly what we all think, and we call 
you Willie or Bill or Sis so's we won’t be re¬ 
minded of her so often. But there isn’t much use 
changing your name if you're going to keep on 
copying her.” 

“I’m not copying her! Why, she makes every¬ 
one miserable when she comes to visit-” 

“Yes, and aren’t you doing the very same thing? 
It’s been noting but ‘Bob, don’t do this ! 9 and 
‘Frank, don’t do that ! 9 and ‘Freddie, don't do the 
other thing!’ and ‘Dick, where are your manners!’ 






42 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


and 4 Jack, I’m surprised at yon!’ ever since we 
got home. I’d much rather have Aunt Wilhel- 
mina come to visit us once in a while, because she 
never stays more than a week-” 

“That’s a nice way to talk to your only 
sister-” 

“Oho! what’s the baby, I’d like to know? You 
can’t bluff us with such speeches any more. And 
Frank and I are going to see that Mary ’Lisbeth 
is properly trained. No more Aunt Wilhelminas 
in this family, thank you! But there’s just one 
thing for you to remember. When we grow up 
and get married, don’t expect to be invited to 
visit us. Maybe Phil will take pity on you just as 
Father does on Aunt Wilhelmina; but you needn’t 
think Frank and I are going to be martyred all 
our lives by Aunt Wilhelminas.” 

This rather lengthy speech for Bob gave his 
sister time to regain her composure. With a fine 
air of indifference she seated herself and idly 
turned the leaves of her book while she rapidly 
considered what she should say to regain the upper 
hand. 

“My, my! You must have stayed awake all 
night preparing that speech. You are certainly 
very respectful toward Father’s only sister-” 

“Huh! I notice you just finished saying a few 
things about her your own self.” 

“Well, if you had to go through life with such 
a name, I think you’d feel that you had a perfect 




A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS 


43 


right to say a few things. Yon seem to think you 
have a right to say and do anything you like, any¬ 
how. But there’s one thing you can’t do, and that 
is play tricks on Mary. I’ve made up mind that 
Father is going to hear of the very next one you 
try, and that’s not tattling, either. Mother says 
it isn’t tattling when we tell her or Father things 
to keep someone from being injured; and Mary 
isn’t well yet by any means, and the fright that 
old snake gave her will probably make her sick 
for this whole day, at least.” 

“Aw, shucks, Willie! Mary has more sense 
than to be frightened by a dead snake. She just 
ran into the house because she hates to look at 
such things. Besides, she isn’t sick any more. 
She told us last night that she feels as well as 
ever, only she can’t run very fast or do much with 
her arm. I’m willing to bet that if you would 
behave yourself and act as you did when she was 
here the summer before last, she would get strong¬ 
er much faster than by just sitting on the porch or 
walking around a little. We know Mary better 
than you think we do.” 

“Maybe you do; but you can’t possibly know 
her as well as I do or you wouldn’t act like such 
Indians. It’s really too bad for your own sakes. 
Mary has always liked you so much. Why, my 
head used to go up about six inches whenever she 
told anyone about my twin brothers. But you 
have certainly given her reason enough to change 


44 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


her mind about you. Oh, no, she won’t show it. 
She will be just as dear and sweet as ever. But 
she can’t help feeling insulted at the way you and 
Frank have acted.” 

“I don’t believe she’s one bit insulted!” Bob 
emphasized his opinion by a vicious kick at the 
lowest step. “I tell you she has more sense 
than-” 

Mary’s appearance in the doorway cut short 
his retort, and turning abruptly on his heel, he 
walked slowly away. Mary watched him for a 
few moments, a puzzled expression in her eyes; 
then she turned to Wilhelmina deeply absorbed 
in her book. “What in the world is the matter 
with Bob! I have never seen him look like that 
before.” 

“W-ell,-no,-1 haven’t either.” 

Wilhelmina squirmed uneasily in her chair. 

“It’s the very first time I have seen him walk 
when he is outdoors. He always goes with a hop, 
skip, and a jump. What ails him! He must be 
sick.” 

“Oh, no, I just gave him a piece of my mind 
about a few things. He needed it pretty badly.” 

Mary’s eyes followed the boy, who, with low¬ 
ered head, kept on his way toward the grove some 
distance back of the house. When he had disap¬ 
peared among the trees, she regarded Wilhelmina 
for some moments in silence. The latter felt her 
steady gaze, but kept her eyes glued on her book. 






A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS 


45 


“Wilhelmina, I do hope yon haven’t said any¬ 
thing to him about that snake. I’m a perfect 
goose about such things; but no matter how I 
try, I can’t get over the horror the very sight 
of them gives me.” 

“Oh, I think most girls are like that—city girls, 
anyway. And you haven’t lived long enough in 
the country to get used to them.” 

“But Berta doesn’t mind them one bit. I have 
seen her pick up big, woolly caterpillars and hold 
them against her cheek-ugh! But Beth al¬ 

most has a spasm if one of them crawls on her 
dress. No, I think it is just in some people to 
have a horror of such things, and it ought to be 
taken out of them. A girl my size running from 
a dead snake! Why, I know very well that Frank 
and Bob wouldn’t carry a live one around that 
way if it was a dangerous kind. So I hope the 
piece of your mind didn’t have anything in it 
about that snake.” 

No response. 

“Did it, Wilhelmina 2” 

“Now, Mary, don’t you mind whether it did or 
not. The boys must stop tormenting you,—that’s 
all there is about it.” 

“Tormenting me! Wilhelmina! How can you 
say such a thing! They have been just wonderful 
to me—every one of them. And the way Bob and 
Frank and Freddie let the twins tag after them, 
and the care they take not to let them get hurt— 



46 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


oh, dear! I’m going right straight after Bob. I 
knew he was hurt about something.” 

“You will never catch up with him now. He 
has gone down the hill to the creek, and you can’t 
tell which way he will go when he gets there. 
He always goes down there when he is out of sorts. 
Let him alone. He’ll get over his sulks.” 

Around the corner of the house dashed Frank. 
“Where’s Bob? Was he around here yet? He 
was coming to ask Mary if we couldn’t take her 
watch in to town to have a new crystal put on it. ’ ’ 

“He was here a few minutes ago, but he didn’t 
say anything about the watch. Mary was in the 
house, so I suppose he forgot about it. He has 
gone down to the creek.” 

“Down to the creek! And he left me saddling 
the ponies so we could start for town right away! 
Look here, Willie, what have you been saying to 
Bob to make him go off by himself like that?” 

“Go after him, Frank,” suggested Mary, “and 
ask him to bring that snake back here. I didn’t 
take a very good look at it, you know. But I am 
going to begin right here to get over my silliness. 
While you are gone, I shall get my watch. I feel 
lost without it.” 

From a window upstairs, Mary watched Frank 
until he, too, had entered the grove. Then she 
decided to remain where she was until she should 
see the two boys returning; for she was really an¬ 
noyed as well as surprised that Wilhelmina should 


A CURTAIN LECTURE AND ITS RESULTS 


47 


make so mucli of a trifle as to plunge Bob into such 
evident dejection. The situation was an awkward 
one. She felt that her little friend was over¬ 
anxious about her; and just how to avoid hurting 
Wilhelmina while assuring Bob that she herself 
was not in the least offended was a rather per¬ 
plexing problem. She felt that she had made a 
fairly good beginning, and was busy planning her 
next move when she was startled by shrill cries for 
help coming from beyond the grove. Down the 
stairs and out on the porch she flew, only to find 
Wilhelmina comfortably rocking and reading. 

“Wilhelmina! are you deaf! Didn’t you hear 
Frank shouting for help? Something terrible has 
happened! Come!” 

But to Mary’s unbounded amazement, Wilhel¬ 
mina looked up at her with a placid smile. “Don’t 
you know those two yet, Mary? This is just some 
new trick to get us down the hill so we shall have 
the trouble of climbing it again. Sit down and 
make yourself comfortable. Where is your 
watch?” 

“I dropped it on the dresser and ran when 1 
heard Frank scream— there! listen! That’s no 
joke, Wilhelmina! There’s Bob, too! They 
couldn’t make their voices sound like that in fun.” 
And Mary, ignoring Wilhelmina’s laughing pro- 
tests, ran down the steps and off toward the grove. 
She wondered that she saw no one else hurrying 
to answer the cries, and then remembered that 


48 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


her father and mother had gone for a long drive 
with Mrs. Marvin, and that Mr. Marvin was di¬ 
recting the work in the most distant fields of the 
plantation. Fred and the younger children had, 
only a short while before, passed with the goat 
cart down the drive toward the gates. 

4 ‘Oh, if Wilhelmina would only come! There 
is something the matter—I know there is! and 
what can 1 do with my arm as weak as a cat’s 
paw? Maybe a poisonous snake has bitten them.” 
She shuddered, thinking of her father’s experience 
in India. On she ran through the grove, pausing 
to snatch up a short, thick piece of bough and 
longing to sink down at the foot of a tree to rest; 
for she had not fully recovered her strength, and 
this was her first attempt at violent exercise. But 
the frantic yells of the two boys urged her on until 
she reached the steep hill descending to the creek, 
where she stopped abruptly with a gasp of dismay. 
Whirling about, she made a trumpet of her hands 
and tried to scream; but her throat was parched. 
Her hands fell helpless to her sides, the right one 
brushing her pocket. The next instant the whistle 
which she always carried was at her lips, cutting 
the air with its long, shrill blasts, and she was 
racing and stumbling down the hill to the stepping 
stones leading across the creek. The land on the 
opposite side was low and marshy, and some yards 
to the east was a quagmire. Close to the edge of 
it on a little patch of solid ground stood Frank, 


A CUETAIN LECTUEE AND ITS KESULTS 


49 


vainly striving to pull Bob out of the thick, green 
ooze into which he was rapidly sinking. He 
shouted a warning. 4 ‘Look out, Mary, look out! 
If you make a false step, you're a goner! This 
little hump I'm standing on seems solid enough, 
and the grasses and weeds that I'm hanging on to 
are tough if the roots will only hold." 

“Oh, isn't there something I can do, Frank?" 

“Keep on blowing that whistle until help comes 
so we won't have to waste our strength yelling. 
Oh, I know something! Hop over here.—Look 
out! don't slip!—That's it. Now stand on the 
roots of these things, or kneel or do anything that 
will throw your whole weight on them so I won't 
pull them up. Now, Bob, I have a better hold on 
them. Steady, old chap! A good pull, and I'll 
have you out! One—two—three!" 

Bob, clinging desperately to the end of the 
leather belt which Frank had thrown him, sec¬ 
onded his brother's efforts by twisting and squirm¬ 
ing valiantly to free himself from the slime which 
was steadily drawing him down into its depths. 

There was a yell from the top of the hill. “Com¬ 
ing, Bob, coming!" Mary's whistle had proved 
to Wilhelmina that no joke was in progress, and 
she had responded to the first blast. Down to the 
creek she dashed, cleared it in two leaps, and 
gained the hummock where Mary and Frank stood. 
“Are you able to run back for help, Mary?" 


50 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Oh, I’ll do anything, Wilhelmina! But there 
wasn’t a soul in sight when I came down.” 

“Get anyone! Aunt Chloe, Lyda, Jinny, even 
Fred! Have them bring a rope—a clothes line will 
do—and a plank—a strong plank! I’m afraid 
Frank and I can’t get Bob out, but we can keep 
him from sinking deeper. I oughtn’t to ask you 
to run all the way back, but my arms are stronger 
than yours. Keep on blowing the whistle and 
some of the men may hear it. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I’m glad to go, glad /” And Mary, some¬ 
what rested, was off up the hill. 


CHAPTER VI 


A CLOSE CALL 

Wilhelmina caught up the stick which Mary had 
flung aside, drove it into the ground behind Frank, 
and bracing her foot against it, grasped her broth¬ 
er firmly around the waist. “Now, let go of the 
weeds and grab the belt with both hands, Frank, 
and perhaps we can pull Bob out ourselves.” 

“You’ll never do it. Pulling is no good when 
there’s something a million times stronger than 
you two sucking me down. I must have some¬ 
thing to brace my feet against before you can get 
me out of this. A plank is the only thing that will 
keep me from going under; but at the rate I’m 
sinking, the chances of getting one here in time 
are mighty slim.” 

“No, they’re not, Bob, they’re not!” insisted 
Wilhelmina. “And Lyda and Jinny are very 
strong. Aunt Chloe isn’t much good—she’s too 
big and fat—but she’s better than nothing. She 
can throw her weight on this end of the board 
after we slip it under your feet, and you’ll be out 
in no time. Mary won’t stop at them, either. 
She’ll find some of the men. Oh, if I had only 
thought to tell her to blow the horn! That would 
bring Father and all the help on the place in double 
quick time.” 

“If she meets Fred, maybe he’ll think of it. 
Stop squirming, Bob, and rest a few seconds. Then 
51 


52 


THE SELWYXS IN DIXIE 


we’ll try again. Why in thunder didn’t you come, 
Willie, when I first yelled. I was at the top of the 
hill, and Bob hadn’t sunk far in then.” 

“I thought you were trying to play a joke on 
us. You know very well, Frank, that I wouldn’t 
have delayed a second if I had thought anything 
was the matter. It was Mary’s whistle that told 
me there was. Let’s pull again. Ready, Bob!” 

Another vain attempt, and all hope of extricat¬ 
ing Bob by their unaided efforts died out of the 
hearts of the girl and boy, who began to doubt 
whether their united strength would be sufficient 
to keep him from sinking before help arrived. It 
was only with great difficulty that Wilhelmina 
restrained Frank from going in after him. 

“Not yet, Frank, not yet,” she whispered close 
to his ear. “We may both have to do it if they 
don’t come soon; but wait a few minutes. We 
mustn’t let him know how fast he’s sinking. Keep 
on saying things so he won’t give up, and pray 
in between.” Then aloud, “Don’t try to wriggle 
and squirm any more, Bob. You will just tire 
yourself for nothing; and it’s easier for us to keep 
you from sinking when you hold still.” 

“He’s too played out to do anything but hold 
still,” growled Frank over his shoulder. 

“I know, I know; but we mustn’t let him feel 
that we think so.” And Wilhelmina fixed her 
eyes on the hilltop, praying that help would soon 
arrive. She had sometimes questioned which one 


A CLOSE CALL 


53 


of her brothers she loved best—tall, handsome 
Phil with the black, curly hair and dark eyes char¬ 
acteristic of the Marvins generally; book-loving 
Harry, “the oddity,’’ as his brothers laughingly 
called him, because he alone had his mother’s blue 
eyes and auburn hair; Joe, her almost constant 
companion when they were home together; the 
jolly, rollicking twins; Freddie with his drawling 
lisp and droll ways; sturdy little Dick; or roly 
poly Jack—and she had usually decided in favor 
of Phil, probably because he teased her less and 
made something of a pet of his little sister. But 
now there was no doubt in her mind that she loved 
Bob the best—dear, fun-loving, mischievous Bob, 
who plagued her unmercifully in season and out 
of season; Bob whose hands were never clean, and 
whose shoes were never half blacked; Bob, so like 
herself in a thousand and one ways; Bob, on whom 
she had vented her ill temper not half an hour 
before and for whose present awful plight she 
alone was responsible! She gulped hard and 
looked again at his white, strained face now so 
much nearer the slimy, green ooze. “Dear God, 
dear God, make them come!” she murmured. 
“Oh, what is keeping them?” 

“That’s what I say. Mary has certainly had 
time to get back to the house. Here, grab this 
strap. I’m going in! ’ ’ 

But Bob, thoroughly exhausted, protested. “No, 
Frank—don’t you—do it.—I—won’t — have it.— 


54 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


One’s—enough.—I guess—Mary caved in—before 
—she found—anyone.’’ 

His words were an echo of the fear which for 
some moments had been gripping the hearts of the 
other two. But Wilhelmina was determined that 
he should not know it. 

“No, Frank, I’m the one who is going in. If 
they’re not at the top of the hill by the time I count 
sixty, I won’t wait another second. I’m respon¬ 
sible for this. And Bob, you just stop talking that 
way. Mary isn’t the caving in kind. She’ll find 
someone before she gives up. You’re not going 
to sink into that dirty, filthy slime, because I’m 
going to stand behind you and get hold of you 
under your arms and keep you up until they come. 
Oh, yes, I’ll sink some, too; but Frank will have 
time to get help before I go down very far.” 

“Not with me—a dead weight—on your hands. 
—I wish—you’d tell—Father—that I didn’t come 
here—on purpose.” Because of the quagmire, 
Mr. Marvin had expressly forbidden crossing the 
creek. “Tell him—I just wasn’t—thinking—-where 
I was—going, and—I got—into this—-before—I 
knew it.” 

“Aw, quit it, Bob! You can tell him your own 
self after we get you out of this and up to the 
house.” 

u I’m going to tell Father about this whole thing 
myself, Bob. If I hadn’t been so cranky and mean 
and cantankerous, it would never have happened. 


A CLOSE CALL 


55 


0 Bob, I want to take back every word I said. 
Mary does know that you haven’t been playing 
tricks on her, and she isn’t hurt or insulted about 
a single thing that you have ever done, and she 
thinks the world of you, and that you are grand 
with Berta and Beth, and—and—Bob, will you 
forgive me for being so horrid ?” 

“It’s all—right, Willie,—and you’re not—like 
Aunt Wilhelmina—one bit-” 

Frank, in spite of the tragedy, could not repress 
a grin. 

“I was—just teasing you, and—I shouldn’t 
—have done it—because Mother—told us—you’re 
not—exactly—well yet-” 

“Oh, I am, Bob, I am! It was something else 
that made me cranky—nothing that you or any¬ 
one did at all-” 

“I say, quit it, both of you! You’ll be naming 
the pall bearers before you get through. Haven’t 
we all teased and played tricks ever since we 
could creep? didn’t Jack tie Beth to the back of 
her chair with the belt of her apron this morning 
at breakfast? Count your sixty, Willie, and I’ll 
do some yelling to see how near they are.” And 
over his shoulder Frank whispered, “If no one 
answers, we’ll know that Mary has dropped in 
her tracks, and one of us will have to go in while 
the other runs for help. This is the worst pickle 
we ever got into. ’ ’ 

But Mary had not dropped in her tracks. True, 





56 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


after the run up the steep hill, she was unable to 
make much speed over the long, level stretch to¬ 
ward the house; and as her repeated blasts of the 
whistle brought no response, she realized that those 
in the house thought the children were using it in a 
game, and decided to save her breath. Not a soul 
was in sight. Never had she seen the place so 
deserted. Suddenly, Fred appeared, racing off 
toward the barn. A blast of Mary’s whistle, a wild 
waving of her arms, and the little fellow changed 
his course. 

“A rope—a clothes line will do!—Bob!—in the 
quagmire!” 

Fred paled visibly under his deep tan and made 
for the kitchen porch, Mary following. 

“The men—where are they?” 

“Abe and Tham and Mothe are in the front 
thellar ficthing the furnathe. I’ll get ’em!” 

“No, I will! Bun with the rope! He’s sinking 
fast!” Mary plunged down the steps to the base¬ 
ment, and Fred was off like an arrow. As he 
neared the hilltop, he shouted reassuringly in re¬ 
sponse to Frank’s first yell; but his voice died 
away, and his heart sank when he came in sight 
of the three, for Bob’s head alone was visible. He 
dashed down the steep slope, waving the rope over 
his head. 

“Tham and Mothe—and Abe will be here—in 
a thecond—with plankth—tho buck up, Bob!” 

“Tie one end around my waist and hold on to 


A. CLOSE CALL 


57 


Frank. When I get a good hold on Bob, let go of 
the strap, Frank, and both of yon grab the rope; 
but don’t pull until I say so.” Wilhelmina kicked 
off her slippers, and with quick, light steps on the 
thick, green mass gained the spot behind Bob, 
when she immediately began to sink. Stooping, 
she caught the boy firmly under the arms; but 
instead of raising him, she was dragged down by 
his weight. Frank and Fred tugged and strained 
at the rope. i 1 There they are, Bob! right at the 
top of the hill. I’ll hold you all right! Throw 
your head back and close your mouth tight—that’s 
it. It won’t matter if the dirty stuff does get into 
your ears—it can’t go all the way in; but I 
wouldn’t want you to swallow any of it. Here 
they are with planks! Brace up, Bob! They’ll 
have you out in a minute!” 

“We sho’ will, Massa Bob, we sho’ will! Dat 
ole green hgwg ain’t gwine t’ git yo’ nohow! He! 
he! he! Wahn’t satified wif dat poah daid cat I 
done gib him las’ week. He lak a boy fo’ a change. 
But no, sah! No boys fo’ yo’ all, yo’ ole green 
hawg! No, sah!” And as Sam talked, he ar¬ 
ranged the two long planks. “Now, Mose, shove 
dis yeah one out undah his feet—dat’s it. An’ den 
put dis yeah block undah it an’ push down easy 
lak.” 

“Lower!” gasped Bob. 

“He says it’s too high. I can feel you pushing 


58 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


him sideways. Lower, lower!—now—yes, he’s 
coming up a tiny bit! ’’ 

“All right, Miss Willie! Easy, Mose, easy! 
Lemme git out dah now on dis odah plank. Abe, 
yo’s de hebby weight ob dis yeah crowd. Stand 
on dis end—yo’ alls, too, boys,—so it won’t sink 
when I walks out on it. Now! It’s gwine t’ be 
gents befoab ladies dis time, Miss Willie.” 

Slowly, carefully, Bob was raised, Sam crouch¬ 
ing at the end of the plank, bolding him as Wilhel- 
mina bad done and waiting to grasp the poor, ex¬ 
hausted little body in his strong arms. He might 
have pulled the boy out, but realized that the 
weight of the thick, clinging slime would be only an 
additional strain on the child’s already overtaxed 
muscles. So be waited—waited—then with a quick 
movement, slipped one arm about Bob’s shoulders, 
the other under bis knees, and bore him triumph¬ 
antly to solid ground. “Dab now! ’Twahn’t 
nuffin’ lak de time de poab li’l calf fell in heah. 
’Membah, Abe? Dat calf ain’t got no sense no¬ 
how. He jes nachelly mos’ kicked de life out’n us 
when we wab doin’ ouali bes’ to git him out. Now, 
Mose, shove dat plank undab Miss Willie’s feet.” 

Wilhelmina clung to Sam’s big, black bands to 
steady herself, and finally stepped across to the 
plank on which be stood and hurried along it to 
Bob’s side. 

“Now, yo’ chilluns mils’ tek a li’l res’ ’foah 
yo’ sots out to climb dat hill. Yo’s all tiahed out. 


A CLOSE CALL 


59 


I’se gwine tote Massa Bob up to de house in 
double quick time, put him in de baf-tub, an’ den 
in bed. I done tole’ Aunt Chloe to hab eberyt’ing 
ready and telefome fo’ de doctah; so yo’ ain’t 
got no ’casion to worry, Miss Willie. I reckon he 
doan’ need no doctah, nohow, but it’s bettah to 
mek sho’ he ain’t got no loose joints or nuffin 
aftah de haulin’ an’ draggin’ dat ole green hawg 
done gib him. Help Miss Willie obah de crick, 
Mose; an’, Abe, yo’ bettah bring down de ponies 
an’ let dem do de hill climbin’. Doan’ yo’ fret 
none, chilluns. Massa Bob’s jes’ plumb tiahed out 
—dat’s all.” 


CHAPTER Vn 
wilhelmina’ s predicament 

‘ ‘ Mary, I’m desperate!’ ’ 

Pausing abruptly on the gravel walk leading to 
the grape arbor, Mary regarded Wilhelmina in 
astonishment. “Desperate! Here in your own 
home! I thought it was only at Maryvale with 
all its rules and bell-ringing and such things that 
you ever felt that way. And after yesterday— 
oh, I should think you wouldn’t have room to feel 
any way but thankful!” 

“Thankful? I’m so thankful, Mary, that if I 
live to be a thousand, it wouldn’t be long enough 
to tell our Lord how thankful I am. But it’s on 
account of what happened yesterday that I am 
desperate. I felt worried and puzzled enough 
before that, goodness knows; but now—” 

“Worried and puzzled, Wilhelmina! I didn’t 
know you ever felt that way. What is the mat¬ 
ter?” 

“The matter is that I want to do something, 
and I don’t know whether I would be breaking 
my word or not by doing it.” 

“Of course you can’t break your word, Wil¬ 
helmina. You can’t. Some girls could; but you 
are not that kind. As long as I have known you, 
you have never done such a thing, and I’m sure 
you never will. Why, you would have to be made 
over into someone else before you could do it. 

60 


WILHELMINA S PREDICAMENT 


61 


Everyone knows that—Sisters, girls, everyone! 
Sister Austin said to me one day that there isn’t 
a girl in school like you for getting into scrapes, 
but that you are the soul of honor! So if you 
would have to break your word, you may as well 
stop being desperate right now.” 

“That’s all you know about it!” Wilhelmina 
looked grim. “You haven’t the least idea of what 
'desperate’ means. Why, you never even get 
cranky with Berta and Beth no matter what they 
do. I’d just like to see Dick or Jack take my 
paints and melt them all in a glass of water as 
they did yours; or poke the eyes out of a beautiful 
doll like Amelia Anabelle to see what made her 
go to sleep. Not that they wouldn’t do it in a 
minute; but they know they would hear some¬ 
thing, I tell you!” 

“But those paints weren’t worth anything, Wil¬ 
helmina. The little pans were almost empty. 
And the doll—what is a doll compared to having 
them? Oh, if you only knew how lonely I was 
without them all that time when we thought they 
were dead! It nearly killed me when I came down 
here the summer before last and saw you all so 
happy together. Of course, the twins shouldn’t 
break and spoil things; and Mother gave them 
a scolding about the doll. But when I begin to 
feel cross with them for some mischief that they 
have been up to, the thought of them lying so 
white and still at the very bottom of the ocean, 


62 


THE SELWYN8 IN DIXIE 


where we all thought they were, makes me so 
thankful that they are alive and able to get into 
mischief, that I would let them poke my own eyes 
out rather than lose them again/ ’ 

“Of course you would. I feel exactly the same 
way about the boys and Mary ’Lisbeth. When the 
boys have broken their bones, and Doctor Black- 
well has had to come to set them and find out if 
there were any other injuries, I have always spent 
the whole time he was with them just praying 
my head off and promising not to get cranky 
when they teased me and all that. But I’m not 
like you, Mary. When they are well again and up 
to their old tricks, I flare right up and forget how 
I felt when I was afraid they might die. I haven’t 
any dolls and things for the little ones to break. 
I have always had live pets, and the boys are too 
—too—well, I can’t think of the right word, but 
they never hurt animals. They know it would be 
cruel. We all play tricks on one another, though, 
and sometimes there’s a grand flare-up all around. 
But it never lasts long. It isn’t such things that 
are making me desperate, though. Haven’t you 
noticed anything? can’t you guess what it is!” 

They had entered the arbor and seated them¬ 
selves on a rustic bench. For some moments, 
Mary looked thoughtfully at her little friend, every 
line of whose expressive countenance betrayed the 
keenest anxiety—an expression so absolutely for- 


wilhelmina's predicament 


63 


eign to care-free Wilhelmina that all the elder 
child’s sympathies were aroused. 

“I really haven’t noticed anything in particu¬ 
lar, Wilhelmina. Aren’t you feeling well? You 
seem more quiet—” 

“Now you’ve said it! Quiet! Yes, on the out¬ 
side ! But if you could only see what is going on 
inside! Oh, I knew it couldn’t last. No one can 
dress a wolf up in sheep’s clothing and expect it 
to turn into a truly lamb. I knew there would be 
an explosion, but I didn’t dream that it would 
be so terrible when it came. Mary, can’t you see 
that everything that happened yesterday was all 
my fault? I drove Bob into the quagmire by all 
the ugly, cross, cranky, mean things I said to him 
before you came out on the porch that time. He was 
so cut up over it that he didn’t see where he was 
going. Oh, dear, me! Why was I such a goose! 
I didn’t know what I was promising. Sometimes, 
I wonder whether it was a real promise at all. 
Perhaps it was just a resolution like those I make 
when I tell Mother Madeline and the Sisters that 
I will try to behave better. Of course, I always 
mean to try; but I never succeed very well, and 
I don’t feel that I am breaking my word then. 
But I’m afraid Father and Mother think this was 
a promise.’’ 

“Why don’t you ask them—” 

“Neverl If I have promised, I shall not ask 
them to let me off.” 


64 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Oh, that isn’t what I mean, Wilhelmina. Just 
ask them whether they consider it a promise; and, 
if they do, you will have to stick to what you 
said.” 

“Hm! Suppose I said that I would do some¬ 
thing you would like very much; and then, after a 
few weeks, I should come to you and ask whether 
you considered I had promised to do it—wouldn’t 
you think me a fine one? You would know right 
well that I was trying to get out of it.” 

“Of course I would. So would Uncle Phil and 
Aunt Etta,” laughed Mary. “But if you are des¬ 
perate about it, you must be hoping that there is 
some way out of it.” 

“I am; and that is why I want your opinion. 
You have a more sensified way of looking at things 
than I have. Do you remember what I said to 
Father and Mother that evening they came to 
Bird-a-Lea and surprised me? Mother was let¬ 
ting me hold Mary ’Lisbeth, and I was so excited 
about her and everything else that I hardly knew 
what I was doing.” 

“Now, Wilhelmina! You surely don’t expect 
me to remember what you said that evening. I 
don’t know what I said myself.” 

“Didn’t you hear me tell them that I would be 
more civilized? that while I was the only girl in 
the family, I thought I might as well act like a 
boy and be done with it? but that, since I have a 
little sister, they would see a great change in me?” 


WILHELMINA ’s PREDICAMENT 


65 


“Ye—es, Wilhelmina, you did say all that.” 

“But I didn’t know then that I was coming 
home for three months. I thought I could begin 
to practice being civilized at Maryvale, where it 
isn’t quite so hard to be prim and proper. It 
seems to me that, if I really made a promise, I 
made it under false offenses, or whatever you call 
them, and perhaps it doesn’t hold good. I cer¬ 
tainly made it without ‘ sufficient reflection, ’ and I 
really can’t think it was a promise at all. Any¬ 
way, look at the awful things that have happened 
just because I was trying to be proper. And 
though I told Father and Mother that I was to 
blame for everything, I know they are puzzled, 
and I can’t explain.” 

“Well, however you look at it, Wilhelmina, 
Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta didn’t think you made 
any promise.” 

“What’s that! Father and Mother—Mary, are 
you sureV 9 

“Perfectly, perfectly sure. Only last night 
while Mother was brushing my hair, she asked me 
if I thought you weren’t feeling so well. Uncle 
Phil and Aunt Etta had been talking to her about 
you, and they can’t imagine why you are so quiet 
and always ready to help sew on buttons and 
straighten your own room, unless you need a 
tonic. Uncle Phil said that he thinks some good 
romps with the boys and a few rides on Dixie or 
drives in the pony cart would be a better tonic 


66 


THE 6ELWYN8 IN DIXIE 


than anything put up in bottles. Aunt Etta in¬ 
tends to write to Uncle Frank to ask whether you 
oughtn’t to improve faster. You see you are really 
worrying them by being prim and proper; so 
they couldn’t have considered what you said a 
promise.” 

“Hooray!” And with one bound, Wilhelmina 
was on the seat opposite, executing a Highland 
Fling that would have completely allayed her par¬ 
ents ’ anxiety as to the state of her health. Finally 
she sank on the bench beside Mary. “My! what 
a relief! You have saved me from goodness only 
knows what, Mary!” 

“I wish I had thought last night to ask you 
what the trouble was. You would have been saved 
hours of worry.” 

“W—ell, I can’t really say that I have worried 
about it during the night. I often wonder how 
people can do such a thing. I go to sleep before 
I have time. But, Mary,” and the expression of 
utter contentment was suddenly succeeded by one 
of gravest concern, “what about Mary ’Lisbeth? 
do you think she is old enough to follow my ex¬ 
ample? Dear me! It’s just dreadful to be a big 
sister!” 

“No, it isn’t, Wilhelmina. You will soon get 
accustomed to it. And I’m quite sure that Mary 
’Lisbeth couldn’t follow your example in most 
things even if she would like to. ’ ’ 

“Now, Mary, you know very well what I mean. 


wilhelmina’s predicament 


67 


It would be simpiy terrible to have that darling 
angel grow up to be such a harum-scarum as I 
have always been. Poor Mother has a right to 
some comfort from at least one of us.” 

“From the way you talk, Wilhelmina, anyone 
would think that you had been in the penitentiary. 
Why, I know that you have never done a mean 
thing in your whole life. Your mischief never 
hurts anyone but yourself. You get bad marks 
at school for not keeping rules better; but when 
you are wound up, you never think of rules. 
Boarding school life is much harder for you than 
it is for most girls. Indeed, I often wish that I 
could do the things that you do; but I’m too big 
a coward. Why, I can’t even jump the low wall 
between Bird-a-Lea and Maryvale without falling 
on top of it and skinning my hands and making 
big holes in my stockings. And you are a 
comfort to your mother in more ways than you 
know. She told me last fall that she is so lonely 
without you while you are away at school that 
she hopes to keep you at home with her after a 
year or two. Then it will be my turn to be lonely.” 

“Hm, you won’t be the only one. Not a girl 
living near here, not even one of my own cousins, 
no one in the world outside of my very own family 
can ever be to me what you are. But oh! it would 
be good not to have to go away from home for ten 
whole months every year. We shall make long, 
long visits to each other. You can easily come 


68 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


here every winter before it is warm enough to go 
to Cedar Eidge, and I shall go to Bird-a-Lea in 
the summer time. But about the baby. Do you 
think she is old enough to remember what I do 
now, and then try the same things herself when 
she is able to do them?” 

“I really don’t know about that, Wilhelmina. 
She is only four months—” 

“That’s just what I think about her. Besides, I 
tried an experiment with her yesterday, and it 
hasn’t had the very least effect on her.” 

“What was it?” 

“Jinny was putting Jack to bed for his nap, 
and Mother asked me to stay in her room with the 
baby while she went down to see some callers. 
I thought it was a good chance to find out if Mary 
’Lisbeth notices things. She was lying on Moth¬ 
er’s bed, so I took off my shoes and pranced back 
and forth on the foot-board and waved my arms 
and made all kinds of faces; but though she was 
staring right at me, she never so much as winked, 
and she wasn’t a mite crosser last evening nor 
this morning for all my bad example. No, I can’t 
believe that it will make any difference to her how 
I behave for about two years. By that time I 
shall be thirteen, and then I would have to turn 
over a new leaf, anyway.” 


CHAPTER Vm 

I AM—I DO—WE ARE 

While the foregoing consultation was in prog¬ 
ress, another of equal importance was taking 
place between two other little maids seated on the 
very lowest of the front steps. The emphatic nods 
of their curly heads gave sufficient evidence of the 
importance of the matter under discussion. The 
distant rat-tat-tat of a hammer sounded from the 
direction of the barns, where Dick was assisting 
Sam to repair the badly wrecked goat-cart, while 
Jack, its sole occupant at the time of the accident, 
was having his injuries attended to by his mother 
and Mrs. Selwyn. Bob had not fully recovered 
from the shock and strain of the preceding day; 
and Frank and Fred were in the schoolroom with 
Miss Walker. So, for the first time since their 
arrival at Sunnymead, Berta and Beth found 
themselves alone. 

“Beth, I’se been thinking and thinking,” was 
the opening announcement. 

“You has, Berta! And you never did tell me, 
not ever, ever at all.” There was a world of re¬ 
proach in Beth’s tone. 

“W—w—ell,—b—b—but,—why, you see, honey, 
nennybody can’t tell what they’s thinking until 
they’s thinked it. So that’s the why I’se going 
to tell you now.” 

“And what has you been thinking, Berta?” 
69 


70 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


politely inquired Beth, only half mollified, though 
extremely anxious to satisfy her curiosity. 

“I’se been thinking that we’s two—great—big 
—babies!” 

“Berta!” gasped Beth, facing about in righte¬ 
ous indignation. “ ’M, ’m! you know what 
Mother said about little folkses calling names. 
’M, ’m, ’m!” 

“But Mother meaned when we called other 
folkses names—not our own seifs.” 

“Well, I’se not your own self, and I’se not a 
baby, so now! Mary ’Lisbeth is a baby, and she’s 
a teeny, weeny, little bit of a thing. Why, she 
hasn’t any teeth, and she can’t walk or do any¬ 
thing ’cept jes’ cry ev’y single time.” 

“I didn’t say little babies. I said two—great— 
’mense—’normous —big babies! ’ ’ 

“Berta, it’s jes’ drefful for you to say such 
names to me! I know we can’t ’spect anybody to 
think we’s big folkses; but we’s not babies! We’s 
little folkses. Why, we has teeth, Berta, and hair, 
and we can walk and run and dance and talk and 
sing songs and play the pinanny and ’cite a long, 
long piece ’bout the night-time before Kismus—” 

“There! that jes’ shows we’s babies! Kismus! 
Even Dick doesn’t say that . Ev’ybody says 
‘Ker-r-r-r-ns-mus.’ And nennybody else doesn’t 
say, ‘I is,’ and ‘We is.’ They say, ‘I are,’ and 
‘We am.’ I’se been listening, so I know. And 
this morning-time when I was sitting on the side 


I AM—I DO—WE ARE 


71 


steps waiting for you, Mother said to Aunt Etta 
she jes’ couldn’t misstand the why Dick can say 
ev’y thing right, and we can’t. 0 Beth! she told 
Aunt Etta how she tried and tried to teach us, but 
we never did learn ’cept the way Jerry and Tom 
and Aunt Mandy talk; and you know, honey, they 
don’t talk ’zactly the same as Daddy and Mother; 
and—and—and I—I jes’ know M—M—Mother is 
’sh—’sh—’shamed of us!” At ,which the two 
threw their arms about each other and mingled 
their tears in an ocean of woe. 

When calm was somewhat restored, Berta trem¬ 
ulously inquired, “Doesn’t you think we could 
possiglee do something to ’prove ourselfs so she 
won’t he, Beth? I ’member a long, long time 
ago, Mary and Willy-mean and all the big girls 
and the young ladies wouldn’t talk to nennybody 
at all. Sister Aus’n said it was a ’treat. They 
went to the Chapel and out in the yard and walked 
up and down, up and down, saying their beads ev’y 
single time; but they wouldn’t talk to us little 
folkses not ever, ever at all. It was jes’ drefful; 
but I would try if Mother wouldn’t be ’shamed of 
us nenny more.” 

“But Mother says it isn’t polite not to talk when 
folkses talk to us.” 

“But in a ’treat you can’t talk; and it must be 
p’lite then or Sister Aus’n wouldn’t let them do 
it. She’s drefful p’lite her own self.” 

“But did anybody talk to the girls?” 


72 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“We did; but they jes’ went this way.” And 
Berta pressed her finger to her lips and shook her 
head 

“That’s easy!” Beth took heart once more. 
“Ever so much easier than trying to talk big 
folkses’ way. Why, Berta, Father told Mother 
that he come—plates—a fishy—dishy. In course, 
I knew what he meaned, ’cause I saw him and 
Uncle Phil fixing fishy rods last evening time, and 
Freddy and Dick went to dig up worms—ugh! 
ugly, old, crawly worms to catch the fishies with. 
Yes, I’se quite sure a ’treat would be nicer than 
’membering such big words.” 

“Sh! sh! sh! somebody’s coming!” And around 
the corner of the house raced the two students. 

“Here they are!” 

“Come on, girlth; don’t you want to help uth 
feed the guinea pigth and all our peth?” 

But instead of a joyful assent from their two 
little guests, the boys were astonished to receive 
only mournful negative shakes of the head. 

“They’re playing they’re deaf and dumb.” 

“Perhapth they’re weak. They didn’t theem 
to eat much breakfatht.” 

“Are you hungry? would you like some cookies 
and milk?” 

Again the heads shook a sorrowful “no.” 

“Oh, I say, what’s the matter? You look as if 
you were going to a funeral. Did you get hurt 
when the cart broke down?” 


I AM—I DO-WE ARE 


73 


“That mutht be jutht what happened. They 
bumped their headth tho hard that it shook all the 
voith out of them.” 

“Then we had better tell Mother right away so 
she can send for Doctor Blackwell.” And the boys 
scampered back the way they had come. 

“Bun!” gasped Berta, grasping Beth’s hand. 

“ ’Way down to the arbor!” insisted Beth. 

Away fled the two between the rows of shrub¬ 
bery bordering the narrow path. 

As they neared the arbor, Mary and Wilhelmina 
emerged from it and paused at sight of the evi¬ 
dent distress of the little ones. 

“Hide us! Hide us!” they cried frantically, 
flinging themselves upon the older children and 
dragging them back into the arbor. 

“There, there, don’t be afraid! There is noth¬ 
ing chasing you now.” 

“0 Willy-mean!—we-~has—such—a drefful— 
trouble,” panted Berta. 

“Such a—dr—drefful, dref-ful trouble,” echoed 
Beth between sobs. 

“Have the boys been teasing you?” Wilhel¬ 
mina’s eyes flashed with indignation. 

“No, no, no, Willy-mean,” protested Berta 
mournfully. “It’s jes’ a trouble in our own seifs.” 

“Sit down and tell us all about it,” coaxed 
Mary. 

The twins exchanged glances; then Berta mur¬ 
mured almost inaudibly, “Mother is ’shamed of 
us.” 


74 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


‘ 4 Dear, dear, haven’t you been playing nicely 
with Dick and Jack?” 

“Yes, Mary, we’s been playing most nicely; but 
Billy wasn’t. He kicked up his heels and ran 
away and bumped into a tree and broke the pretty 
cart; and we tooked Jack to Aunt Etta and 
Mother to get hisself mended up. But that isn’t 
the why Mother is ’shamed of us.” And the dark 
head drooped pathetically. 

“I don’t see how she can be ashamed of you,” 
insisted Wilhelmina. “Since you’ve been here, 
you’ve been the best little girls in the world. 
Ashamed of you! The very idea! I don’t believe 
it. What was chasing you just now?” 

“Nennything wasn’t chasing us, Willy-mean. 
We—we ran away ’cause—’cause the doctor is 
coming. ’ ’ 

“The doctor, Berta! Oh, is Jack much hurt?” 

“Not very much, Willy-mean. The doctor is— 
is coming to see us.” 

“To see you!” Mary’s eyes opened wide. 

“Ye—es, Mary, ’cause we’s in a ’treat, and 
Frank and Freddie tkinked we couldn’t talk,”* 
explained Beth. 

“You mean that you are playing you’re in Re¬ 
treat?” Wilhelmina’s eyes danced. “Well, that 
is a joke!” 

“But we isn’t joking, Willy-mean; we’s earn¬ 
ing,” protested Berta. 

“Hm! I think you had better wait until you 


I AM—I DO-WE ARE 


75 


leave Sunnymead before you try to make a Re¬ 
treat. The boys won’t give you a chance to make 
one here, that’s certain.” 

“But we jes’ has to do something, Willy-mean; 
and a ’treat is so much easier than trying to talk 
like big folkses.” Beth’s under lip quivered piti¬ 
fully. 

41 But no one expects you to talk as grown people 
do.” Light had been slowly dawning upon Mary. 
“Why, Wilhelmina and I can’t do that, and we 
are ever so much older than you are.” 

“We’s nearly hap-past four, and Berta said 
we’s great, big, ’mense, ’normous babies, so she 
did!” 

“And that’s ’zactly what we is—no, am. I is 
—no, are going to talk right, and I aren’t going 
to make a ’treat, either; so now!” 

This was too much for Wilhelmina. “0 duckies, 
you is, am, are too funny!” 

“B—but Mother’s ’shamed of us, and—and the 
why is ’cause—we talk like b—b—babies! ’ ’ And 
Berta wailed dismally. 

“Well, Mother won’t be ashamed of you very 
long.” Mary was all sympathy. “Every morn¬ 
ing we shall come down here and play school.” 

“Yes, we shall begin right now. Mary will be 
the teacher, and I’m the bad girl who never studies 
her lessons, and you are both good girls who al¬ 
ways go to the head of the class. We three shall 
sit on this bench, and that one will be the teacher’s 
seat.” 


76 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


The little ones dried their tears and entered 
eagerly into the plan, Beth insisting, “You be 
head of the class first, Willy-mean, ’cause you is 
—no, am the biggest.” 

“Well, I won’t be there long, Beth, with such 
good children as you and Berta in the class.” 

“Now, I shall ask questions, and you must 
answer them; and when one makes a mistake, the 
next one must give the right answer and go above 
her. Wilhelmina, are you a good girl?” 

“I should say I is!” 

“I are!” Berta triumphantly prepared to go 
head. 

“I—I—I doesi” Beth sprang to her feet. 

“Everyone is wrong. Your turn again, Wil¬ 
helmina.” 

“I—I am!” 

“Correct. Now, Berta, do you study your les¬ 
sons?” 

“I am!” was the complacent reply. 

“ Oh! oh! I does! I can go ahead of you, Berta. ’ ’ 

“No, no, Bethy, you made a mistake. Wilhel¬ 
mina?” 

“I—I doos!” 

“I do!” Berta proudly took first place. 

“Beth’s turn. Are we going for a drive to¬ 
day?” 

“We am!” The little maid remembered Berta’s 
lesson of a half hour earlier. 

“We is!” 


I AM—I DO—WE ARE 


7 ? 


4 ‘We—we—did yesterday,” hazarded Wilhel- 
mina. 

“We are!” And Beth went head with a happy 
little skip. 

“Now, young ladies, we shall proceed to exer¬ 
cise our memories on these three expressions only, 
until you have thoroughly grasped their signifi¬ 
cation—” 

“Then we isn’t—we amn’t—no, we are not 
coming to this old school nenny more! You said 
we doesn’t—no, we do not have to say big words, 
and now you ’spects us to misstand when you talk 
about ’ceeds and ’spressions and signy fignies 
and all things same as that. Come on, Beth, we’ll 
make a ’treat.” 

“But—but Mary doesn’t ’spect us to say signy 
fignies and all those things, Berta. She’s be-tend- 
ing to be a big folks. We must jes’ say, ‘I am/ 
and 4 1 do/ and ‘We are/ ev’y time she asks us.” 

Notwithstanding the unpromising beginning, 
the little class assembled every morning; and, 
strange to relate, in spite of their mother’s sur¬ 
prise and delight at their steadily improving con¬ 
versation, the twins kept the secret. 

To Mary and Wilhelmina, the half hour from 
nine to half past every morning was a time of real 
amusement; but to the two little ones, it was the 
most important period of the day. It was not un¬ 
usual for them to slip away to the arbor imme¬ 
diately after breakfast, and there put to each 


78 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


other the questions asked on the previous morn¬ 
ing ; nor was it of rare occurrence that the arrival 
of the two older girls interrupted a decidedly 
heated argument. Indeed, on one occasion, they 
found the little pupils seated as far apart as the 
length of the arbor would permit—Berta, grim 
and determined; Beth in tears, but equally deter¬ 
mined. Then Mary, with the utmost dignity, de¬ 
clared that if private lessons had such a bad effect 
on the pupils, the school had better be closed; and 
arm in arm, she and Wilhelmina sauntered down 
the walk toward the garden, leaving the twins 
overcome with remorse. In feverish haste they 
kissed and made up, and timidly followed the 
two older girls. 

i ‘ M—M—Ma—ry, .W—Wil—ly—me—un 

.” Berta at length ventured. 

“Well?” Mary turned partly around; but Wil¬ 
helmina could not trust herself to follow suit. 

“D—does you— do you think you can possiglee 
’scuse us jes’ this once if we promise ‘Fai’ful, true, 
honest Injun, black and blue’? I’se—no, I am 
quite sure Beth said it krectly. ,, 

“Oh, no, Berta, I jes’ know you did.” 

“Said what correctly?” 

“I said I couldn’t misstand what Uncle Phil 
meaned at breakfus when he was talking to Daddy; 
and Beth thinked—th—thought I ought to say 
‘iwstand;’ and first I thinked—thought Beth 
didn’t say it krectly, but now I’m quite sure she 
did.” 




I AM—I DO—WE ARE 


79 


Wilhelmina retired behind a convenient bush. 

“Well, Berta, you know by experience that 
Beth is usually right—not always, of course—” 

“Ye—s, Mary, I know she has a better ‘mem- 
bering thing in her head than I has— have.” 

“No, I think she is just a little more careful 
than you are and stops to think before she speaks. 
But this time it happens that both of you are 
wrong.” 

The two looked at each other and gasped. “Oh! 
oh! isn’t that puffeckly drefful!” 

“Not a bit.” Mary edged away from the bush. 
“But it is perfectly dreadful for two little girls 
to be so stubborn and to make each other unhappy, 
especially after all the beautiful things Mother 
has told you about Blessed Mother when she was 
a little girl.” Mary paused to give her words 
time to take effect; then continued cheerfully, 
“But since you are really sorry, we shall open the 
school again. Run back to the arbor and get 
ready, and we shall be there in a few minutes.” 

Hand in hand, the twins skipped away, and Wil¬ 
helmina came from behind the bush. 

“We shall have to take ‘the longest way round’ 
to get back to that arbor, Mary. It’s my turn 
to-day to be teacher; but I simply can’t face those 
two. You will have to do it; and please ask some 
foolish question so they will think I have reason 
for laughing.” 


CHAPTEE IX 

THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 

When class was over and the two little ones had 
run off to find the boys, Wilhelmina astonished 
Mary by asking, “Why don’t you write a story 
about those two?” 

“Write a story, Wilhelmina!” 

“Oh, you needn’t look like that. I mean it. It 
would be a hundred times easier for you to write 
about the things they do and say than it is to make 
up stories by the yard about other children, the 
way you often do to amuse the twins.” 

“But telling a story is a very different thing 
from writing one, Wilhelmina. Only authors 
write stories, you know.” 

“And what were authors once upon a time? 
weren’t they boys and girls like us? and didn’t 
they have to make a beginning some time or other 
before they were able to write stories and verses 
that were fit to read? Look at Uncle Dave, one 
of Mother’s brothers. I suppose he’s an author. 
He gets out a magazine every month and writes 
for it and for other papers, too; but Mother says 
when he was my age he just hated to write com¬ 
positions and letters. I guess I take after him, 
specially in spelling. Mother says he was a cau¬ 
tion. But he is a great comfort to me, Mary; for 
when Father teases me about the kind of letters 
80 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


81 


I write, Mother always says, 4 Never mind. Be- 
member what Dave was at her age, Father.’ 9 9 

4 4 Then you see, Wilhelmina, he didn’t begin to 
write until he was older. Why, authors have to 
know how to spell all kinds of words and where to 
put commas and semicolons and all such things—” 

44 Hm! I guess you needn’t worry about spell¬ 
ing when you could write the kind of letters you 
did from Europe and put in all those French and 
Italian and German and Swiss and Dutch names. 
Oh, I was always so happy when those letters came 
even though it made me feel like a cancelled post¬ 
age stamp when Father looked over his spectacles 
at me and said, 4 When may we expect to receive 
such a well-written letter from you, little daugh¬ 
ter?’ ” 

44 But Uncle Fhil knew right well that I couldn’t 
have spelled those words without help from 
Mother and Uncle Frank. And authors can’t 
have their mothers and uncles sitting beside them 
to tell them how to spell.” 

4 4 You can find millions of words in the diction¬ 
ary, Mary; though, if I were you, I would use only 
words that I was sure of and save myself the 
trouble of looking them up. As for those other 
things, you know enough to put a period or a ques¬ 
tion mark at the end of a sentence, and you can 
sprinkle the commas in here and there wherever 
you think they look best; and when you aren’t 
sure whether to use a colon or a semicolon, just 


82 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


put in a dash. Dashes are such comfortable 
things. They seem to fit anywhere.” 

“0 Wilhelmina, Wilhelmina!” Mary threw 
back her head and laughed gaily. ‘‘You know very 
well that you can’t sprinkle commas around where 
they look best. Those marks are used to make the 
sense clear to the reader.” 

“Then say what you mean plainly in words and 
leave out all those things. It will be as easy as 
anything. ’ ’ 

“Since you think it will be so easy, why don’t 
you write the story?” 

“I write a story! Well, Mary, I thought you 
had more sense. But I’ll tell you what I shall 
do. If you write the story, I shall draw pictures 
for it. You are always telling me I have talent 
for drawing, so here is a chance to prove it. Of 
course, I don’t mean for you to write a story that 
will be printed in a book; but just one that only 
we two shall ever see. And when we are old, old 
ladies with false frizzes and store teeth and spec¬ 
tacles, you will come here to visit me, and I shall 
go to Bird-a-Lea to visit you, and we shall sit in 
rocking-chairs on the porch with our cups of tea 
and our tabby cats and our knitting or tatting or 
whatever it will be the style then for old ladies 
to do; and we shall take turns reading the story 
aloud. 0 Mary, it will be great fun!” And Wil¬ 
helmina tossed back the short thick curls which 
had fallen about her flushed, eager, little face. 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


83 


Mary could not imagine the day, however dis¬ 
tant, when her little friend would be obliged to 
part with either that mop of dark curls or those 
strong white teeth and replace them by the arti¬ 
ficial variety; nor could she picture herself with¬ 
out her own heavy fair hair hanging below her 
waist. But she realized that she and Wilhelmina 
would have many a good time over the book, and 
consented to make an attempt to write the story. 

“We shall ride into town this afternoon to get 
what we need, Mary. I think one of those stiff- 
covered composition books will be just the thing 
for you to write in, and I shall get drawing paper 
the same size. Then you can leave vacant pages 
here and there, and we shall paste the pictures on 
them. ,, 

“I had better write first on pencil paper and 
copy it in the book, Wilhelmina; because there 
may be parts of the story that will need changing.” 

“Any way you please, just so you do it. And 
we won’t breathe a word about it to a living soul.” 

It was as much as Wilhelmina could do to keep 
the secret during luncheon; and when she an¬ 
nounced with an air of mystery that she and Mary 
were going to town immediately after that meal, 
the curiosity of the three older boys was at once 
aroused. 

“Let’s go see about having our ball glove 
mended, Bob.” 

“But we are not going to take the cart,” pro- 


84 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


tested Wilhelmina; “we’re going to ride.” 

“Well, I guess we have our ponies, haven’t we? 
And Frank didn’t say that we’re going with you.” 

“No, he didn’t say it; but just the same, you’re 
going only to snoop around and see what we buy. 
You had no idea of going to town this afternoon 
until I said Mary and I are going. Father, don’t 
let them. We have a secret—” 

“Oho! as if Bob and I don’t know why you two 
were out in the kitchen first thing this morning! 
They had all Aunt Chloe’s cook books open at 
once. I bid for the chocolate pan, um! um! um!” 
And Frank patted himself in anticipation of the 
treat. 

“There are not going to be any pans in this 
secret. There’s not one hit of use making candy 
around here. It’s all eaten before it’s half made. 
At Bird-a-Lea when Mary and I make candy, Berta 
and Beth are satisfied to scrape the pans and then 
wait until the candy is hard.” 

“They don’t appreciate your cooking as much 
as we do; eh, Bob?” 

“You’re right, Frank. Besides, we like things 
fresh.” 

“Well, this secret has no candy in it. It’s some¬ 
thing that’s going to last until Mary and I are 
old, old ladies—” 

“Then don’t athk uth to eat any of it. I don’t 
’prethiate thtale cake.” 

“It isn’t cake either, Fred. It isn’t anything to 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


85 


eat, and really it doesn’t make a bit of difference 
whether you see what we buy or not. You can 
never, never guess what we are going to do with 
the things; can they, Mary?” 

“Pm perfectly sure they can’t, Wilhelmina. No 
one but you would ever think of such a thing for 
us to do.” 

Immediately after luncheon the girls were off, 
with Frank, Bob, and Freddie not far behind. 

“We shall go to every store in town, Mary, and 
price all sorts of foolish things; and the boys will 
be so puzzled that when we go to that school supply 
place next to the public school to buy what we 
really want, they won’t think such things belong 
to our secret at all. Just wait!” 

The two girls dismounted in front of the general 
store of the little town, and with the boys at their 
heels, entered and went straight to the proprietor, 
who had known the Marvin children all their 
lives. 

“We are going around to a good many depart¬ 
ments to-day, Mr. Loring, and we would be glad 
to have the same clerk show us the things if you 
have one who is not too busy.” 

“This is not our busy time of day, Miss 
Marvin—” 

Bob promptly fell over against his twin. “Did 
you hear that, Frank! Miss Marvin! And she’s 
swallowing it whole without a gulp, and she’s not 
even two whole years older than we are!” 


86 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


But Mr. Loring was still speaking. “And I 
shall be delighted to accompany you myself. 
"What is the first thing you would like to see?” 

“I suppose we had better look at the trunks 
first; don’t you think so, Mary ?’ ’ 

The boys opened their eyes, and when they 
reached the trunk department, listened in amaze¬ 
ment while their sister glibly priced steamer 
trunks, suitcases, and valises. Mr. Loring oblig¬ 
ingly brought out a catalog, offering to send to 
Macon or Savannah for anything he did not have 
in stock. As Wilhelmina bent her head over the 
pages, she managed to whisper a word of expla¬ 
nation to the old man, who entered heartily into 
the fun. Before the two girls had finished dis¬ 
cussing the advantages and disadvantages of 
traveling with much luggage, the boys had with¬ 
drawn to some little distance. Frank solved the 
problem to the entire satisfaction of the other two 
—at least, for the time being. “7 know! I bet 
TJncle Rob and Aunt ’Lisbeth and all of them are 
going on down to Florida and then across to Cuba, 
and they’ve invited Willie to go with them. Gee 
whillikins! I wish I was in her boots!” 

“Don’t I though!” 

“Theemth to me ith about time thomebody 
came along and athed uth to go thomewhere.” 

“Haven’t we just been somewhere? We cer¬ 
tainly didn’t expect to go to Bird-a-Lea for Christ¬ 
mas—” 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


87 


11 Great Caesar!” Bob’s black eyes almost 
popped out of bis bead as be saw tbe smiling pro¬ 
prietor set aside a handsome Russian leather 
valise and beard him say, “Yes, Miss Marvin, I 
can easily have them here by Thursday—that is, 
if they have them on band at tbe factory. Per¬ 
haps you bad better mark your second choice in 
tbe catalog; for tbe trunk and suitcase you prefer 
are both very popular styles and tbe factory may 
be out of them for tbe time being. And what can I 
show you now?” 

“Washing machines,” was tbe prompt reply. 

“Very good! very good! I have just received a 
shipment of electric washers, the latest and best 
on tbe market.’ ’ The old man beamed on tbe boys 
as be passed them on bis way to the laundry sup¬ 
ply department. 

“Hub! Doesn’t sound much like Cuba, Frank.” 
Mary and Wilhelmina caught tbe whispered re¬ 
mark and were glad that they were in front of tbe 
boys. 

“I guetb I know what itb up. Willie itb going 
to Thedar Ridge with ’em, and Fawtbab thayth it 
itb an old-fashioned platbe, and of courtb they 
wouldn’t have electric wasbertb there, tbo they’re 
going to take one with ’em.” 

“But if it’s so old-fasliioned, have they tbe elec¬ 
tricity to run tbe washer?” Frank asked anx¬ 
iously. “Willie ought to think of that. Tell her, 
Fred.” 


88 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


‘ 4 1 will not! Tell her your own thelf . 9 9 

“But if the washer is for Cedar Ridge, why 
isn’t Mary doing the buying V 9 demanded Bob. 

“Perhaps Mothah ith making Aunt ’Lithabeth 
a prethent of it.” 

“Then why doesn’t Mother do the buying? 
What does Sis know about washing machines, 
anyway? I’ll bet she has never seen ours work¬ 
ing. You and I could give her some pointers, Bob. 
For instance, I wouldn’t buy a washer with 
that—” Frank paused to listen to Mr. Loring. 

“You think these are too large, Miss Marvin? 
I thought for a family the size of yours—Oh, it is 
not for your family. For your friend’s perhaps. 
No? Well, let me take a look at that catalog and 
see whether this style washer is made in a smaller 
size. Electric washers—page—one twenty-six— 
There you are! Yes, here is probably the size you 

wish,—size three.Trouble? Not at all, Miss 

Marvin, not at all! But I am afraid I cannot have 
it here before Saturday.” 

“Oh, that will do nicely, Mr. Loring. And now 
let me see.” Wilhelmina consulted a slip of pa¬ 
per, which, by the way, she had torn from a page 
of the catalog. But the boys were not near enough 
to see that it was printed, not merely written on. 

“If it wasn’t that Willie isn’t even two whole 
years older than we are, I’d say she’s going to get 
married.” At which loudly whispered comment 
from Bob, the two girls turned abruptly to take 



THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


89 


another look at the washer. When Wilhelmina 
felt that she could safely speak, she asked, “Do 
you keep horse blankets, Mr. Loring?” 

The hoys gasped and stared at one another. 

“Sorry, Miss Marvin, but that is one thing I 
do not carry in stock; but I can easily send down 
the street to the harness shop and have an assort¬ 
ment here by the time you have finished your 
other shopping.’’ 

“No, no, Mr. Loring, thank you. We can stop 
there on our way home. Oh, I see you have bird 
cages. How large a one do you think it will need, 
Mary?” 

Bird cages! Wilhelmina, who thought every 
living thing should be as free as air, buying a 
bird cage! The boys were almost stupefied. 
Freddie alone ventured a remark. “Willie hath 
thertainly changed thince the fire.” 

Again Mr. Loring spoke. “Lace bed spreads? 
To be sure, Miss Marvin. I have something that 
I think will suit your taste exactly.” Chuckling 
and rubbing his hands, the old man led the way 
to the far end of the store, where, against a back¬ 
ground of turkey red cambric, hung a large spread 
with pillow shams to match. Wilhelmina and 
Mary almost screamed; for the design showed 
Robinson Crusoe seated under a palm tree with 
Friday at his feet. But they managed after a few 
moments during which they stood gazing raptur- 


90 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


ously at the set, to assure Mr. Loring that it was 
‘ 4 just the thing!” 

The boys sank weakly on a pile of comforters. 
A traveling outfit, an electric washer, a horse 
blanket, a bird cage, a lace spread—and such a 
spread! Words failed even loquacious Freddie. 
But the three sprang to their feet as though a shot 
had been fired behind them when they heard their 
sister calmly inquire, “Mr. Loring, do you know 
whether they keep electric coupes at that new auto¬ 
mobile place up the street? or do they just have 
touring cars and such things ? ’ ’ 

The puzzled expression on Fred’s serious little 
face gave place to one of genuine alarm. “Thay, 
boyth, let’th go home. Willie hath gone crathy, 
and Fawthah ought to know it and come and make 
her thtop thitli.” He started down the aisle, but 
paused at Bob’s “Hold on, Fred! Mary doesn’t 
seem to think she’s crazy. She’s letting Sis buy 
anything she pleases; and we all know Mary has 
sense.” 

“But—but perhapth it’th contagiouth, and 
Mary hath caught it thame ath you catch 
meathleth and chicken pocth and thcarlet fever 
and all thuch thingth. They’re alwayth together, 
and Mary’th room ith right necth to Thith’th, 
and they leave the door between open at night. 
I heard Thith thay tho.” 

“W—ell, wait a few minutes, anyway.” Frank 
was determined to solve the mystery. “She’s 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


91 


bound to buy something that will let the cat out 
of the bag, and then we can scoot along home, and 
Father can ’phone to tell Mr. Loring not to pay 
any attention to what she has done. She hasn’t 
paid a cent for anything, so she must be charging 
them to Father. Whew! won’t he be mad though? 
1 wouldn’t want to be in her boots after all, eh, 
Bob?” 

1 ‘ But even if Willie paid for the things, Mr. 
Loring would give the money back.” 

“Ye —es, I s’pose he would. Say, that fire had 
an awful effect on Willie, didn’t it! Until this 
afternoon, she has seemed ail right since the day 
you almost went down in the quagmire. That 
was about the most natural thing we did after we 
came home, and I s’pose it brought her to her 
senses. I’m going to give Mr. Loring a tip before 
we leave here.” 

Though the boys thought they were conversing 
in whispers, nothing they said escaped the girls. 
Wilhelmina was jubilant. “We’ve got them just 
where we want them, Mary. Tell me some other 
wild thing to look at, and they’ll trot along home 
and leave us in peace. I really can’t believe that 
they would be able to guess about the book from 
the paper and things that we buy, but that would 
be the very reason they would come snooping 
around while we are working on the story.” 

Mary thought for a moment and then suggested 
going into the grocery department. There Wil- 


92 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


helmina’s eyes fell upon the large scales, and she 
immediately asked the price.. 

i 1 These, of course, are not for sale, Miss Mar¬ 
vin; hut I can order the same kind for you. Let 
us see what the catalog has to say about the price. 
I cannot remember what I paid for these.” 

“Say, Frank, I’m going to buy some peanuts 
to save the looks of tilings. Willie is putting him 
to no end of trouble, and he’s not going to get a 
cent for it after all.” 

“Yes, wouldn’t yon think they’d buy some 
cookies or something! The old tight wads! The 
clerks will think the Marvins are a nice bunch. 
I’m certainly surprised at Mary, but I s’pose she 
doesn’t like to hurt Willie’s feelings. Come on. 
How much have you got! Jiminy! I hate to 
spend every cent I have with me when I’m saving 
for a new tennis racket. But a fellow’s got to 
think of his family and not let it be disgraced this 
way.” And while Wilhelmina and Mary racked 
their brains for something even more ridiculous 
than the articles already mentioned, the three 
boys spent every dime, nickle, and penny in their 
pockets for peanuts and candy. They were some¬ 
what cheered by Fred’s suggestion, “Perhapth 
Fawthah ’ll pay uth back, ’cautli we’re thaving 
the reputation of the family. He’ll thertainly 
’prethiate it.” 

Out on the sidewalk, Wilhelmina paused. “That 
new auto place is just up at the next corner, Mary. 


THREE BEWILDERED BOYS 


93 


We may as well walk there. The ponies will be all 
right here until we come back.” 

Bob could stand it no longer. “Oh, I say, Sis, 
come along home. Father won’t like it if you go 
rooting around into all the new places in town. ’ ’ 

Wilhelmina assumed an air of injured dignity. 
“Beally, Bob, I think Father knows that he can 
trust me.” And as the two girls turned away, 
Frank darted back into the store to Mr. Loring. 
He was out again in a moment. “Now, we’ve got 
to ride for it. Bad enough to have that poor old 
fellow wasting all this time. I wish you could 
have seen his face when I gave him a hint of 
what’s wrong. But it’s a million times worse 
to think of her going into a new place run by 
strangers.” He sprang into his saddle, and the 
three were off at top speed. 

“Mary’s the one I can’t understand, unless 
Freddie is right about a thing like that being con¬ 
tagious. Heavens, Frank! If you ever see me do 
anything queer, hold me under the pump until I 
come to my senses, will you? A steamer trunk 
and a washing machine; a horse blanket and a bird 
cage; a lace bed spread and an electric coupe! 
What in the name of goodness does she think she’s 
going to do with them?” 


CHAPTER X 

TWO TRIUMPHANT GIRLS 

If the boys had turned in their saddles and 
caught sight of Wilhelmina clapping her hands 
and dancing about on the sidewalk, their anxiety 
would have doubled. 

Back to their ponies the two girls ran, and a 
few minutes later they were in the little school 
supply shop. It took some time to select their 
materials, and they had almost decided on a large, 
leather-covered, gilt-edged composition book, when 
Mary’s eye fell on a loose leaf note book. 

“See this, Wilhelmina! It is just the thing. If 
I spoil a page, I needn’t put it in, but just write 
it over again on another sheet; and here is the 
drawing paper exactly the same size with holes 
already punched in it. That will save pasting your 
pictures on the pages.” 

Wilhelmina readily agreed and then selected a 
number of pencils and various kinds of erasers. 
At last the purchases were wrapped and paid for, 
and after an ice cream soda at the corner drug 
store, the two little girls mounted their ponies 
and started for home. 

“Do you think we shall meet Uncle Phil coming 
to see what ails us, Wilhelmina?” 

“Indeed not, Mary. Father knows me by heart. 
He will understand that I have just been trying 
to give the boys the slip, but he won’t pretend so 
94 


TWO TRIUMPHANT GIRLS 


95 


to them. He will look very solemn while they are 
telling him their worries about us; but after they 
have gone, simply bursting with their own import¬ 
ance, he will find Mother, and they will both have 
the best laugh ever was. Wait until Mother hears 
about the present she was supposed to be giving 
Aunt , Lisbeth! ,, Wilhelmina’s merry laugh caused 
the people on the street to smile. 

“And that awful spread! Does anyone ever 
buy such things, Wilhelminaf” 

“Of course they do. Why, a darkey bride would 
think that set a scrumptious wedding gift, and 
there are plenty of white folks, too, who would be 
glad to get it. But poor Mr. Loring had a time 
keeping his face straight when he showed it to us. 
No wonder the boys thought I had gone crazy. 
They know that I have always made fun of such 
things. And the poor fellows spent every cent 
they had to save the reputation of the family.’’ 
Again Wilhelmina laughed gaily. “Well, it just 
serves them right for being so snoopy. Really, 
Mary, you ought to have a pretty good idea now 
what it means to keep a secret in our family. 
Berta and Beth may be curious to know what 
is going on, but they’re not old enough to plan so 
many ways of finding out. I wonder just where 
will be the best place for us to work on the book. 
Perhaps in the arbor when the twinnies have fin¬ 
ished their lesson and gone off to play. They never 


96 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


do come back again, and the boys have never both¬ 
ered us there.” 

“I am not thinking so much about where we are 
going to work on the book as where I am to begin 
my story.” 

“Why, on the first page of the composition book, 
of course. Oh, that’s so: you didn’t buy a book. 
Well, then, on the first sheet of your tablet. No, 
not on the first one, either. There is always a 
blank page left in the front of a book; then comes 
a picture; and facing it is a page with the name of 
the story on it. What are you going to call it, 
Mary?” 

“Oh, dear, me, Wilhelmina! I haven’t thought 
of a name for it yet. I don’t even know what I am 
going to say on the very first page. ’ ’ 

“ * Berta and Beth’ wouldn’t be a bad name. 
Still, there’s time enough to decide about that. 
But let’s pretend that’s the name until we plan 
the page facing the first picture. It ought to go 
like this: 1 Berta and Beth, by Mary Selwyn’— 
that is, if you are going to use your own name. 
Some writers don’t, you know. Father told me 
that ‘Mark Twain,’ for instance, isn’t the man’s 
real name at all. It’s his—oh, I don’t know what 
you call it. Some Frenchy name that ends with 
feather—no, plume. But it doesn’t make much 
difference, I guess. In plain English it means 
pen name. So are you going to have a pen name 
or just use your own?” 


TWO TRIUMPHANT GIRLS 


97 


“You make me laugh, Wilhelmina. You talk 
as if I were a real author. Of course I shall use 
my own name if I have to use any at all. I really 
don’t see why a name is needed. You will know 
that I have written the story, and I shall know 
that you have drawn the pictures; and we are the 
only ones who are ever to see the book.” 

“But we must make it sound like a truly book, 
Mary. So that first page will go like this: ‘Berta 
and Beth by Mary Selwyn, author of—’ ” 

“Now, Wilhelmina, that’s too much! I’m not 
an author of anything . I have never written a 
thing in all my life.” 

“Why, Mary, you have too! You’ve written 
letters from Europe—oh, I have it! That sounds 
as much like the name of a book as ever so many 
in the library, xlnd if all your letters were made 
into one book, it would be a million times more 
interesting than some of the books of letters that 
I have seen. Joggerfy seems to me to have more 
sense since I have read those letters written by 
someone I know so well. So we shall say, ‘Author 
of Letters from Europe and’—let—me—see. What 
else have you written?” 

“Wilhelmina, I think you’re just terrible!” 

“I’m not, either. ‘Letters from Europe and’— 
I know! ‘A Hundred and One Compositions,’ no, 
‘Essays’—” 

“Wilhelmina!” 

“Yes, that sounds scrumptious! Maybe you 


98 


THE SELWYNS IX DIXIE 


have written only ninety-nine or a hundred compo¬ 
sitions—I’m sure I’ve written as many as that— 
but the extra one gives a more highfalutin’ sound 
to the name. Anyway, what difference does it 
make what we say you have written when no one 
else is going to see it. We can pretend that you are 
a really, truly author, can’t we, and put down the 
names of dozens of books ? But I think just those 
two and ‘et cetera’ will make it sound important 
enough. Let’s see. ‘Berta and Beth by Mary 
Selwyn, author of Letters from Europe, One Hun¬ 
dred and One Essays, et cetera. Illustrated by 
Wilhelmina Marvin.” I shall just use my own 
name, too. Artists don’t have feather names— 
I mean pen names. Now, that fixes the first page. 
Then comes the contents page, doesn’t it? and 
then the list of illustrations; and then the story 
begins.” 

“But where shall I begin it?” 

Wilhelmina swung around in her saddle. “Mary, 
what’s the matter with you? haven’t I just told 
you where to begin it?” 

“Oh, that’s not what I mean, Wilhelmina. Do 
you expect me to tell all about the twinnies since 
they were teeny, weeny babies ? ’ ’ 

“W—ell,—I don’t know about that. There 
really isn’t much to tell about such little babies. 
Mary ’Lisbeth doesn’t do anything but sleep and 
wake up and cry and laugh a little once in a while. 
And Berta and Beth were away from you so long 


TWO TRIUMPHANT GIRLS 


99 


just when they began to do cute things. I think 
the best place to begin the story will be just after 
you moved out to Bird-a-Lea last September. The 
things they have done since are still fresh in your 
mind, and it will be easier to write about them. 
You can begin with the afternoon you and I hur¬ 
ried to the village to meet your father and then 
drove back to Bird-a-Lea in the new cart. Will you 
ever forget the look on their faces when they saw 
what Uncle Bob had bought for them instead of 
the goat cart they were so anxious to have! A 
i billy cart/ as they called it.” 

“Yes, and how much afraid they were of Her¬ 
cules when he jumped off the back seat of it and 
bounded up the steps.” 

“And you can tell about the day Berta fell out 
of the peach tree. That will make a fine picture if 
I can get it right. I can’t hang her by her dress 
to a broken branch as she hung that day, so I 
shall have to make it up.” 

“And do you think you can draw them at the 
table as they looked that Saturday afternoon at 
the little surprise party we had for them when 
the big play room was finished?” 

“Too many in that for a picture, Mary. But 
you can tell about it. Oh, you will find more than 
enough to write about them. What they have done 
down here would fill a book.” 

Recalling the various antics of the Selwyn 
twins, the girls found the homeward ride all too 


100 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


short. As they neared the gates at Sunnymead, 
they caught sight of the three boys awaiting their 
arrival. 

“Mary, look at them! They are surely keeping 
an eye on me!” 

“On me, too, for fear I have caught the dis¬ 
ease.” 

“But do you know what it means? They will 
tag around after us everywhere we go, and we 
won’t be able to do a thing on our book.” 

“Perhaps if you do a few of the things they 
think are natural, as they called Bob’s terrible 
time in the swamp, they will believe you are all 
right again and let us alone.” 

“Oh, if I just hadn’t promised Mother 
not to do it, I would ride standing up in the saddle 
all the way to the house. Never mind, I can do a 
few things as it is.” And with a perfectly natural 
whoop, Wilhelmina dashed through the gates, 
snatched off the boys’ caps in quick succession, 
and on her way up the drive performed various 
other feats which more than satisfied her anxious 
brothers that the spell had passed. 

Day after day during the remainder of her 
visit, for an hour or so after class had been dis¬ 
missed, Mary wrote at the little rustic table in the 
arbor, while Wilhelmina sat opposite, touching up 
the rough sketches she had made the day before. 
She had decided talent for drawing—a fact which 
her parents recognized; and they fully intended 


TWO TBIUMPHANT GIKLS 


101 


to allow her to develop it later on. It was the one 
quiet occupation in which the child felt perfectly 
happy; and her brothers were so accustomed to 
being asked to “ stand that way just a minute until 
I get you,” that they ran away whenever they saw 
her approaching with paper and pencil. By means 
of bribes of candy and ice cream soda, she still 
succeeded in coaxing Dick and Jack to pose for 
her; so the curiosity of the other three boys was 
not aroused when they saw Berta and Beth acting 
as models. And the two little girls were delighted 
to have their “Willy-mean make” their pictures. 
Seated on the steps with Mary on one side of her 
and one of the twins on the other, Wilhelmina drew 
with quick bold strokes whichever of the little ones 
happened to be posing, until the one beside her 
cried, ‘Oh, come, come see what Willy-mean’s 
making you do now!” And Mary’s, “No, no, stay 
where you are! ’ ’ had no effect on the child, whose 
curiosity had to be satisfied before she could be 
persuaded to resume her pose. When Wilhelmina 
had finished her rough sketches of them, they 
would insist on her standing before them while 
they “made” her picture. 

At last came a letter from Mr. Clyde, the over¬ 
seer at Cedar Ridge, announcing that the weather 
seemed fairly well settled in that locality. 

“Oh, dear, Mary! and the story isn’t half fin¬ 
ished. I had hoped it would be ended before you 


102 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


would have to go away. Now, I can’t do the rest 
of the pictures for the book.” 

“But I can tell you what I am going to write, 
Wilhelmina; or better still, I shall send you a 
copy of each chapter as soon as I have it finished, 
and you can make the drawings and mail them 
to me.” 

‘ 1 Scrumptious, Mary! I know that I shall have 
to get down to work with Miss Walker the very 
day after you leave here; but I shall manage to 
find time to draw the pictures. Of course, I shall 
have to make them up, and that won’t be so easy 
as having the twins here to pose for me; but I 
have drawn them in so many positions that I think 
I can manage pretty well.” 

“Of course you can, Wilhelmina. The pictures 
that you have finished are just wonderful. I think 
you really ought to show them to your father and 
mother. They would surely let you begin to take 
lessons; and they wouldn’t guess about our secret, 
either, because you are always doing pictures of 
the boys. Come, let us take these to them this 
minute, and I shall help you ask about the les¬ 
sons.” 


CHAPTER XI 

A ROYAL WELCOME 

“Can we see it from the train, Father?” 

“We should be able to catch a glimpse of the old 
place, Mary, if the town has not built out this way 
and run up too many skyscrapers. After we have 
left this strip of woodland behind us, I shall point 
it out to you. Meanwhile, we had better put on 
our wraps/’ 

“Oh, are we almost at Daddy’s house where he 
lived when he was a little boy, a long, long, long 
time ago?” And while her mother fastened her 
coat, Berta wriggled about excitedly to obtain a 
better view out the window. 

“Almost there,” replied her father. “Come in 
here by me and see whether those sharp eyes of 
yours cannot spy it first. Room for you, too, 
Beth.” 

As the three children watched impatiently for 
the end of the woods, Mrs. Selwyn resumed her 
seat at her husband’s side, fully realizing what 
this first glimpse of the old home meant to him 
who had broken all family ties for his Faith. 

“Oh, see the cute little river!” cried Beth. 

“That stream forms the southern boundary of 
our place. Many a morning my brother and I 
spent fishing in it.” 

Then the woods ended suddenly, and a low 
plain stretched away between them and a high 
steep hill in the distance. 

103 


104 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Now, now, Father! Where shall we look!” 

“On the top of that elevation before us, Mary. 
The house is not yet in sight.” 

“They’s only trees and trees, ’way, ’way up on 
a big hill,” complained Berta. 

“Just a moment, pet. Ah! there it is at last! 
Can you see it now—among the trees on the very 
top of the ridge!” 

“I see something white, Father; but I thought 
you said the house is red.” 

“So it is, Mary. You see the columns support¬ 
ing the roof of the veranda across the front.” 

“I see white, too!” “I see it!” insisted the 
twins, gazing in any but the right direction. 

“And is it built on the top of a mountain, 
Father!” 

“No, indeed, Mary. The hill before you is 
merely the eastern end of the ridge, which drops 
abruptly to this plain. The southern side of the 
ridge slopes none too gently to the little stream 
which we crossed a few minutes ago; but the in¬ 
cline on the north is very slight, as you will see in 
a moment. The eastern and southern slopes and 
the top of the ridge for some miles back of the 
house are well wooded. The fields and pastures 
lie to the north and northwest.” 

“And is Cedar Bidge the name of the whole 
ridge, or of just our part of it!” 

“Only our own place is called by that name, 
owing to the great number of cedars growing on 


A ROYAL WELCOME 


105 


this end of the rise—just as Bird-a-Lea was named 
by Mr. Elliot for his special pets, and Wil- 
helmina’s home—well, really,, I do not know why 
Phil Marvin’s place is called Sunnymead. Beyond 
a doubt, the sun shines with equal splendor on 
the meadows of his neighbors.” 

“Do we stay on the train until we reach the 
town, Father, or is there a little station this side 
of it!” 

“There is no stop nearer than the town. We 
shall drive back these two miles over which we 
are now traveling.” 

“And will we have to climb that drefful, ’nor- 
mous, ’mense, big, high hill, Daddy?” 

“Not at all, Berta. It would be a difficult mat¬ 
ter to construct a road up the face of that preci¬ 
pice. The entrance to our grounds is off here at 
the northeast corner. It is nearly a half mile 
from the main road and is connected with it by 
a private driveway made by our great-uncle of 
many generations back,—the same one who built 
the house.” 

“Is it very much farther to the station, Father? 
I am so anxious to get into the carriage and drive 
along that beautiful road; for I know it must be 
beautiful when everything else over that way is. 
Oh, we are beginnirfg to go slower, and I hear 
music—” 

“And here we are!” Mr. Selwyn rose. “But 
where did the crowd come from? And see the 


106 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


decorations! What event are they celebrating to¬ 
day?” 

“The arrival of someone of whom they evi¬ 
dently think a great deal.” Mrs. Selwyn laughed 
softly, a sweet, prond expression in her beautiful 
eyes, which rested for a moment on the platform 
packed with men, women, and flower-laden chil¬ 
dren, all in holiday attire, then on the little station 
decked with flags, bunting, and more flowers, while 
the village band blared the triumphant strains of 
Hail the Conquering Hero Comes . Then she 
turned to follow her husband and the little ones 
down the aisle. 

The mighty cheer which greeted his appearance 
in the doorway made Mr. Selwyn aware of the 
reason for the demonstration. For a moment he 
paused, touched beyond measure at what was 
plainly an overwhelming desire to make amends 
for the lack of welcome at his homecoming thir¬ 
teen years before. Not that he had at that time any 
more than at present expected such an ovation. 
He would have been as much surprised then as 
now that more than a very few knew of his com¬ 
ing. But the people themselves had evidently 
resented the fact that his sister had kept them in 
ignorance of his intention to visit the old home 
on his wedding trip; and they were determined to 
show that their loyalty to the eldest son of one 
of their oldest and most respected families had 
been above suspicion. Then, too, the fact that he 


A ROYAL WELCOME 


107 


had returned to them, though for two years or 
more all had believed him dead, was in itself suf¬ 
ficient cause for unusual rejoicing. 

Recovering himself, Mr. Selwyn turned to his 
wife. “Come, Elizabeth, we must face the music 
together.” And with her beside him and the 
children just in front, he stood on the platform 
of the car—which he now realized was a special 
coach decorated as gaily as the station—and gazed 
with moist eyes over the sea of faces, old and 
young, upturned to his. The music ceased, and 
the cheering died away; and in a few well-chosen 
words spoken in a strong, clear voice, he expressed 
his appreciation and gratitude. Then, strong 
arms lifted the children down, and the older men 
and women crowded about to grasp the hand of 
“Master Rob” and to be presented to his wife, 
more beautiful now in her added dignity of moth¬ 
erhood than when, on her visit as a bride, she had 
met with such a heartless reception, or rather no 
reception at all, from her husband’s family. Five 
little girls presented each of our party with an 
immense bouquet of wild flowers; and presently, 
a tall, dark man, who had been standing a little 
apart, approached and was introduced as Mr. 
Clyde, the overseer at Cedar Ridge. As the band 
struck up Hail to the Chief, the crowd parted to 
form a lane through which he led the way to the 
big, old-fashioned, flowerdecked carriage. The 
driver, a very short, very stout old darkey, en- 


108 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


veloped in a linen duster, stood at the heads of 
the fat old horses. Catching sight of Mr. Selwyn, 
he hastened forward as fast as his ponderous 
weight would permit. 

“Well, well, Pompey! Is it really you?” 

“It sho’ly am Pompey, Massa Rob, it sho’ly am 
me! An’ Ah t’anks de good Lawd fo’ lettin’ me 
lib to see dis day an’ fo’ gibbin’ me de oppo’tunity 
fo’ to ’splain ma conduct on a fo’mah ’cashun. 
Ah nebah done ’spected to git de chanct to do dat 
twell Jedgment Day. But Ah ’lows dis yeah ain’t 
de propah time an’ place fo’ dat ’splainin’ nohow. 
Dey’ll be plenty ob time fo’ dat, now yo’s kem 
back to yo’ own agin. But Ah jes’ wishes to 
’suah yo’, Massa Rob, fo’ maself an’ all de res’ 
ob de ole niggahs on de place, dat none ob us 
knowed yo’ wah acomin’ wif yo’ bride dat day—” 

“Oh, I was quite sure there was some grave 
mistake about that, Pompey; and you may all give 
her a double welcome now as my wife and the 
mother of these little folks.” 

“We sho’ly am gwine t’ do dat, Massa Rob.” 
The old man chuckled and bowed low to Mrs. Sel¬ 
wyn and the children, then opened the door of the 
carriage with a flourish and stood aside while Mr. 
Clyde assisted them into it, and the village chil¬ 
dren crowded about thrusting their bouquets into 
every corner and upon the floor. With elaborate 
care Pompey closed the door, while the overseer 
mounted his horse and rode on ahead. 


A ROYAL WELCOME 


109 


“Ah ’lowed as yo’ alls would feel moah lak ole 
times an’ be moah comf’able in de ole kyahage; 
but Mistah Clyde he wouldn’t heah to it, nohow. 
He wah fo’ habin’ me dribe dem frisky bays; but 
Ah reckoned it wah ma turn to mek objections, an’ 
Ah ups an’ ’fohmed him dat ole Lily heah am 
skittish ’nuff when de train am on de track. Mis¬ 
tah Clyde am powahful ambitious ’bout mekin’ a 
good ’pression on folkses; but Ah prefehs mekin’ 
dem comf’able. Co’se, he wahn’t bohn an’ riz on 
de ole place lak de res’ ob us.” 

“That makes all the difference in the world, 
Pompey. ’ ’ 

“It sho’ly do, Massa Bob, it sho’ly do!” and 
with much puffing and blowing, the driver climbed 
to his seat. 

Mary, who had detected the twitching of the 
corners of her father’s mouth as Pompey had 
proceeded with his explanation, now looked in¬ 
quiringly at him. 

“This carriage was one of my mother’s wed¬ 
ding gifts.” Mr. Selwyn spoke in a low tone. “I 
could not help thinking that Pompey might have 
brought the coach. As it dates back to pre-Bevo- 
lutionary days, it would surely have reminded us 
of old times.” Then he chuckled, and Mary and 
her mother laughed outright; for, instead of the 
usual sudden start of the automobile to which 
they had grown accustomed, they experienced the 
slightest possible forward movement of the car¬ 
riage. 


110 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“And Lily is skittish/’ Mrs. Selwyn murmured 
with a meaning glance at the train still on the 
track, the engine puffing and snorting vigorously. 

“Perhaps she lost her hearing on the way to 
the station, Elizabeth.” 

At a snaiPs pace they moved along the main 
street of the little village, bowing and waving to 
the people, who stood on the sidewalk or walked 
beside the carriage, while the musicians marched 
before playing Home Sweet Home . 

“One would think that I am a hero returning 
from the war. How would these people ever ex¬ 
press their joy at the coming of one who had 
done them some great service?” 

“Their hearts would find a way, Bob. But it 
seems to me that they feel that you have done 
them that service. What was it?” 

“Nothing, I assure you, Elizabeth. My people 
have lived on the old place for over a century and 
a half; and there are stories of the generosity of 
our men when times were hard, and of the kind¬ 
ness of our women in days of sickness and sorrow. 
But I, personally, have done nothing for them. 
This demonstration is not in honor of what I am, 
but of what I stand for. The majority of these 
people think more of the age of a family than of 
its virtues or talents. My great-uncle of several 
generations removed was one of the first settlers 
in this part of the state, having come from Eng¬ 
land in 1740. So the people look upon us as among 


A ROYAL WELCOME 


111 


the very oldest families in the neighborhood and 
honor ns accordingly.” 

“ However that may be, I am inclined to doubt 
that there is nothing personal in this demonstra¬ 
tion, Eob,—” 

“ Mother, they’s all little skeeties and things 
flying in these flowers, and they get in my eyes and 
nose and ev’ything,” whispered Beth, almost in¬ 
visible for the masses of bright blossoms. 

“Yes, Mother, they’s jes’ drefful,—they’s flying 
ev’y whichy way,” seconded Berta. “Do you 
thing it wouldn’t be very p’lite to put some of the 
flowers out the window !” 

“Be patient for a few minutes longer, and we 
shall see if we cannot remedy matters. It would 
never do to hurt the little girls ’ feelings by throw¬ 
ing away the flowers which they took such pains 
to gather for us.” 

“Why did they do it for us, Mother! They 
never did know us, not ever, ever at all.” 

“Not ever ever at all.” came Beth’s faithful 
echo. 

“But their fathers and mothers nave Known 
Father ever since he was a little baby, and they 
have told their children about him and his chil¬ 
dren; so they are all glad to have him come back 
to his old home and bring you with him. But we 
are nearing the outskirts of the village now, and 
I can see the musicians lining up at the side of the 
street; so the people will probably not accompany 
us any farther. Then we shall arrange the flowers 
so that you will be more comfortable.” 


CHAPTER XII 

PLANS 

The young people had intended to march beside 
the carriage to the gates of Cedar Ridge; but 
their elders, realizing to some extent what this 
home coming must mean to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, 
persuaded them to disband at the outskirts of the 
village so that the family might enjoy the peace 
and quiet of the drive along the beautiful country 
road. 

When the crowd had fallen back, and Mrs. Sel¬ 
wyn felt that they were free from observation, she 
and her husband carefully stowed a number of the 
bouquets under the seats; and the twins with 
great sighs of relief, stretched their poor, little, 
aching arms. 

‘‘Oh, dear, me! Won’t we ever be at your house 
where you lived a long, long, long time ago, 
Daddy? I’m so tired trying to get there.” 

“To our house, Berta,” her mother corrected. 
“Father’s home is our home, you know.” 

“Oh, did you live there, too, when you were a 
little boy a long, long time ago, Mother? I’m 
quite sure I never did live there,—or Beth, or 
Mary, ’cause they never told me they did.” 

“No, dear, none of us except Father has ever 
lived there; still, Father’s old home is ours, also. 
Don’t you remember the house in New York 
where Aunt Mandy was waiting for us after our 
112 


PLANS 


113 


long voyage on the big boat? That was my home 
when I was a little girl a long, long time ago, as 
you say, though it seems a very short time to me. 
But after I grew up and married, it was also 
Father’s home—home for all of us just as Bird-a- 
Lea is now.” 

“Then we have three homes—the New York 
home and Bird-a-Lea home and this home. ’M, ’m, 
’m, seems to me that’s a drefful many for one 
fambly.” 

‘‘ Mother and I have come to the conclusion that 
it is one too many, pet, and we are thinking of 
converting that one into a home for others. We 
must keep Bird-a-Lea, for it would never do to 
leave poor Uncle Frank alone, as we should have 
to do if we were to live always at Cedar Kidge; 
and we shall keep Cedar Ridge, for it is well to 
have a home in the South. But the New York 
home we think of using for another purpose. Per¬ 
haps you can tell us what we had better do 
with it?” 

For a few minutes the twins gave themselves 
up to earnest thought; but there was an eager light 
in Mary’s eyes and a flush on her pale little face 
which betrayed the fact that on her part no re¬ 
flection was necessary. 

Berta was the first to speak. “I’d like best of 
all for jes’ little folkses that haven’t nenny father 
and mother and Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary to 


114 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


live there and have a nice, good Aunt Mandy to 
take care of them. ,, 

“That’s jes’ ’zactly what I’d like best of all, 
too,” agreed Beth. “And have Sandy Claws come 
and give them dollies and—and—oh, ev’y thing 
nice they is! ” 

16 Good for you, little folks! ’’ Mr. Selwyn blinked 
to clear his eyes of the mist which had gathered 
there. “And your idea, Mary? for I see that you 
have one.” 

“Something the same, Father, but not exactly. 
I’m very sure that the Sisters at all the asylums 
take good care of the orphans. But I have been 
thinking so much lately of the poor little children 
we have visited at the hospital; and it seems to me 
that there should be a place where they can be 
sent when they are well enough to leave it, but 
not well enough to go back to a poor home where 
they won’t get the right kind of food and care, and 
perhaps will be left alone all day while their 
mothers go out to work. Uncle would visit 
them every day; and don’t you think Mrs. Kooney 
would be just the one to put in charge?” Mary 
yras quite breathless. 

“This is evidently no new idea of yours, little 
daughter, and I must say that it is a very excel¬ 
lent one.” Mr. Selwyn smiled approvingly at the 
little girl. “Unlike most New York houses, ours 
has sufficient grounds around it to insure the little 


PLANS 


115 


convalescents a certain amount of fresh air and 
sunshine—” 

“But—hut, Daddy, isn’t they going to be nenny 
chilluns there! jes’ con—con—what you said, you 
know?” asked Berta. 

“Convalescents? But they are children—little 
children who have been ill, but are getting better. 
How long have you been planning such a home, 
Mary?” 

“I have been thinking about it since the fall, 
soon after we moved out to Bird-a-Lea. That day 
when Uncle met us in the city and took us to the 
Zoo, we stopped at the hospital on our way home 
and saw his little patients in the children’s ward. 
He said that some of them were well enough to 
leave the hospital if only they had the proper 
kind of homes. The poor little things looked so 
thin and pale and weak that I almost cried when 
I thought of the places they call home; and I made 
up my mind then and there to ask our Blessed 
Mother to show me some way to help them. So if 
you and Mother hadn’t really decided what to do 
with the New York house, it seems to me that she 
has answered my prayers. I promised that I 
would ask you to do whatever she showed me as 
an act of thanksgiving for all the favors she has 
obtained for us, and to name the place in her 
honor. 

“Of course, when I was planning everything, I 
wasn’t thinking of our home in the city, but of 


116 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


some country place. But the New York house 
will be better, because the mothers and fathers can 
go to see their children there when they couldn’t 
afford railroad fare. And I thought that Tommie 
Rooney could take the children to drive in the 
park if we could have a wagonette; and there is 
that little summer house in the yard where they 
can have tea parties; and there ought to be some 
swings and ever so many other things that I can’t 
remember now, because this is all so unexpected, 
you know.” 

“To us as well as to you, dear,” said Mrs. Sel- 
wyn. “I confess that I could not bear to think of 
the old place in the hands of strangers, who would 
probably tear down the house to make room for 
an apartment building. But your plan does away 
with all such possibilities. Perhaps I have a fool¬ 
ish sentiment about these old homes; but there is 
so much connected with them—” 

“I agree with you, Elizabeth, and I have given 
much serious thought as to how the New York 
property might be utilized without allowing it to 
pass out of our hands. I would not like to see it 
become the property of another any better than 
that Cedar Ridge should fall into the hands of a 
stranger. So I, too, have made plans; but such a 
one as Mary’s has never occurred to me.” 

“And we can ask Aunt Mary to write to Mother 
Lucy at the convent in the city and tell her about 
the children, and I know she will have the Sisters 


PLANS 


117 


visit them; and there will have to be a chapel in 
the house so that Mass can be said there at least 
on Sundays and holy days. But you haven ’t said 
what you think of Mrs. Booney.” 

a Iam sure that she will be a great help to us,” 
said Mrs. Selwyn, “and she and Tommie will be 
far more comfortable than they are now in their 
poor little cottage up the road. But the little 
patients will need an experienced nurse to look 
after them and see that each one receives the care 
his or her case requires.” 

“0 Mother, I know the very person for that! 
Gene! In her last letter she said she would finish 
her hospital training in April; and she just loves 
children, you know. If she had been my own big 
sister, she couldn’t have been kinder to me that 
time she stayed with me after you and Father 
went away.” 

More than four years before, when Mary no 
longer needed the care of the Sister who had 
nursed her through a serious illness, Eugenia 
Donnelly, known to her friends as Gene, had acted 
as companion to the little girl for several weeks. 

“But don’t you think Gene has already made 
plans for the future?” asked Mr. Selwyn. “It is 
not probable that she would care to leave her 
mother in Chicago, where, I think you said, Mrs. 
Donnelly has a good position.” 

“Yes, Father, after Mr. Donnelly died, Mrs. 
Donnelly’s brother found a position for her as 


118 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


matron of some institution there. Then Gene de¬ 
cided to be a nurse. No, of course, she can’t leave 
her mother. But won’t we need a matron, too? 
Oh, if we could have both of them, just think how 
lovely it would be for them to be together every 
day! I’m sure that Gene would be glad to give up 
all her other plans for that. Won’t you write and 
ask her, Father?” 

“I shall be glad to do so after we have talked 
the matter over with Uncle Frank. If he approves 
of our ideas, he can begin at once to make any 
little alterations that may be necessary in the 
house. Then all will be in readiness to open our 
home for convalescent children as soon as we re¬ 
turn to New York.” 

“Let us open it the first of May, Father, our 
Blessed Mother’s own month. And what shall we 
name it?” 

“Do you mean to say that you have not decided 
that important point when you have all the other 
details so thoroughly worked out?” 

“Oh, I have thought of so many, many names 
that I really don’t know which would be best. It 
must be some title of our Blessed Mother, because 
I promised that, you know. I thought of ‘Mary’s 
Home;’ but on account of the great favors she 
obtained for us at Lourdes, it seems to me that 
we ought to choose a name specially connected 
with that shrine.” 


PLANS 


119 


“How would ‘Our Lady of Lourdes Home for 
Convalescents’ do?” suggested Mr. Selwyn. 

“Or since, as we are told, her Immaculate Con¬ 
ception is our Blessed Mother’s most cherished 
prerogative, and she herself announced to Ber¬ 
nadette, ‘I am the Immaculate Conception,’ what 
would you think of using that title?” asked his 
wife. 

“ Those are the very two I have thought most 
of, but somehow I can’t choose. I don’t quite like 
that word ‘Home’ either; for no matter how kind 
we are to the children, we can never make it a real 
home for them—at least, not my idea of home. 
The grandest orphan asylum that was ever built 
and the kindest people in it to care for the chil¬ 
dren can never take the place of a real home. You 
see, I know exactly how it feels to have no father 
and mother; and though Uncle Frank and Aunt 
Mary couldn’t have been dearer and kinder, 
neither his apartment in the city nor Maryvale 
was home to me. Perhaps after I had finished 
school and gone to live with Uncle in our New 
York home, I might have felt different about it— 
but that would have been years and years after I 
had lost you.” 

“We understand, dear.” Mrs. Selwyn spoke 
very softly. “And as there is no immediate ne¬ 
cessity of deciding about the name, we shall take 
time to think about it.” 

“Oh, there is another thing that we ought to 


120 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


have! Do you think we could make a grotto in 
the yard, Father! You remember that high mound 
near the fence, where we used to coast when I 
was a little thing! Couldn’t a hollow place be 
made in one side of it and cemented in some way 
to look like the brownish rock at Lourdes! Of 
course, our grotto wouldn’t be so large; but we 
could make it as much like Lourdes as possible. 
The grottos that I have seen in churches are not 
enough like the real one. They are built of sepa¬ 
rate stones, while that at Lourdes is just one great 
mass of brown rock. I should think cement could 
be made to look like it.” 

‘‘The construction of the grotto is something 
that Mother and you should be present to super¬ 
intend, so we shall do nothing about it just mrtfr.” 

*‘ Dear, me, Daddy! I’m quite sure the horses 
are going to sleep. Please let Beth and me get 
out and walk a little while. It’s jes’ been riding, 
riding, ev’y single time—all last night-time and 
nearly all this day-time in the train and now in 
the carriage.” 

“0 Pomp!” 

“Yas-suh, Massa Rob, yas-suh!” The team 
halted, and the driver leaned down from his lofty 
seat. 

“ These little people are all impatience to see 
the old place. Can’t you make a little better 
time!” 

“Sho’ly, Massa Rob, sho’ly Ah kin! Ah ’lowed 


PLANS 


121 


how yo’ alls wah plumb tiahed out aftah dustin’ 
obah de ken try in dem steam-kyaks sence las’ 
ebenin’, an’ I reckoned dat yo’d be moah com- 
f’able ef’n Ah made Lily and Rose go easy lak. 
Den, too, I wahn’t fo’ kabin’ de li’l ladies skeert 
to def wif none ob de kintankrus antics lak what* 
dese ole grays projected de bery las’ time Ah 
dribed dem to de station hitched to dis same iden- 
teek le new kyahage. Golly! Ah suttinly i lowed 
dat ole witch woman, Dilsey, done put de conjuah 
on dem for sho’.” 

“When was that, Pomp!” From the appear¬ 
ance of the horses, Mr. Selwyn strongly suspected 
the true state of affairs. 

“Dat wah—lemme considah, Massa Rob. 

Yas-suhl dat wah all ob ’leben yeaks ago. It wah 
de ’caskun when Miss Bertha done depahted on 
dat European towah what she done depahted on 
aftah ole Marse Selwyn wah daid. She nebah 
kem back to de ole place no moah; an’ aftah we- 
alls done heahed ob yo’ def, we jes’ nachelly nebah 
’spected to see none ob de fambly agin. But glory 
hallelujah! Yo’ is kem into yo’ own agin, Massa 
Rob! Into de home ob yo’ forestalls befoah yo’! 
An’ may de good Lawd leabe yo’ and yohn wif us 
twell yo-all’s as ole as ’Thusalem! ’’ 

“Thank you, Pompey, thank you! And never 
fear that these little people will be frightened at 
any prancing the grays may do.” 

“Yas-suh! Ah lows dey ain’t no perticklah 



122 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


dangeli now dat we-alls a consid’able ways fum 
dat steam-enjine, nohow. So we’s off!” 

Jerking the reins and cracking the whip, Pom- 
pey braced himself for the shock; but to his utter 
amazement and consternation, Rose and Lily am¬ 
bled along at their former gait. “Why—why— 
huc-cum yo’ doan’ mind me when Ah gibs yo’ de 
signal fo’ to Crease yo’ speed, yo’ lazy, wufless, 
good-fo , -nuffin , beasts, yo! Am dis de way yo’s 
gwine to depoht yo’seifs when yo’s hitched to de 
new kyahage, adrawin’ de fustest fambly in 
Figinny! Ain’t yo’ got no shame in yo’ ole lazy 
boneses dat yo’s lumbahin’ ’long lak two clumsy 
ole elaphumps?” 

A vigorous jerk at the reins and a free applica¬ 
tion of the whip followed this exhortation; but the 
results of so much energy expended did not come 
up to Pompey’s expectations, and with a groan he 
sank back on the seat, deeply chagrined. “Dat 
witch woman ain’t nebah done lifted de conjuah 
off’n dem poah beas’es, dat’s suttin! But why 
fo’ it ’fects dem disaway, and not de same as dat 
oddah time, am moah dan Ah kin ondahstan’.” 


CHAPTER XIII 
daddy's old home 

“Here is the fork in the road, which I told you 
about on the train, Mary. That lower branch 
leads down into the valley and skirts the base of 
the ridge; and this one that we are about to fol¬ 
low is our own drive to the gates. Just a few 
minutes more, little folks, and we shall be home." 

“See the beautiful sunset! And there is the 
house—" 

“Where, Mother, where?" The twins wriggled 
about to get a better view, and all gazed in silence 
across the sloping, fresh green fields at the old- 
fashioned house on top of the rise. Then Berta, 
always the first to speak, murmured with an ap¬ 
proving nod, “So that's the very 'zact house 
where Daddy lived when he was a little boy a long, 
long, long time ago." 

1L The very same house, pet . 9 9 Mr. Selwyn smiled 
down into the dark eyes regarding him so wonder- 
ingly. “What do you think of it?" 

“I think—I think—oh, my thinks go ev'y whichy 
way at once, and I don't know how to say it! It's 
—it's the most beauty home they is in the whole 
world!" 

“In the whole world!" echoed Beth. 

As they neared the gates, Rose and Lily, evi¬ 
dently realizing that supper awaited them, quick¬ 
ened their pace, and presently the sound of music 
123 


124 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


again reached the ears of our little party. Mr. 
Selwyn laughed. “ Another demonstration. It is 
well that the long lost heir does not return every 
day to his ancestral domains. The work in the 
fields and about the grounds would suffer; for the 
darkies enjoy nothing better than a celebration of 
this kind. I must guard against its repetition by 
keeping myself more in evidence.” 

Grouped about the gates were the colored help, 
men, women, and children, some sawing away at 
fiddles, others strumming on banjos and guitars. 
Amid cries and shouts of welcome the carriage 
was brought to a sudden stop, the horses removed, 
and the tongue grasped by a score of strong hands. 
Pompey, thoroughly disgusted at the lack of fam¬ 
ily pride in his particular pets, tossed the reins 
to his grandson, Tobe, with the injunction to ‘‘turn 
dem wufless beas’es into de pastuah, an’ let dem 
stuff dey fat seifs twell dey bust!” 

“Oh, oh, Daddy! See the beauty little vi’lets 
growing by the wall,” cried Beth. 

“Oh, yes, Daddy! Please let us get out to pick 
some,” urged Berta. 

“But we already have more flowers than we 
know what to do with. That is a bouquet of violets 
that Mary is holding. Those others will keep until 
another day.” 

But Pompey, close to the carriage door, had 
heard the plea, and signed to a pickaninny near 
him. The child scampered back, snatched a hand- 


daddy’s old home 


125 


ful of the flowers, and returned to Pompey’s side. 

11 Dah yo ’ is, li ’1 ladies! ’ ’ The old darkey passed 
the bouquet through the window. 

Like a flash the twins were on their feet ex¬ 
claiming rapturously over the coveted flowers; 
and Berta’s chubby hand reached out as she cor¬ 
dially declared, “Very happy to make your 
’quaintance, Mr. Pompey! Beth is, too!” 

“Laws a massy! Me! Mistah Pompey! Happy 
to mek ma ’quaintance!” And quite overcome, 
Pompey stepped back, placed his hand on his heart 
and bowed so low that, on straightening up, he 
found himself left far behind the now rapidly 
moving carriage. 

“See the swing, Beth! 0 Daddy! please let us 
get out and have jes’ one swing—jes’ one!” 

“The swing, too, will be there to-morrow and 
the day after and every day. Old Aunt Cynthy 
would never forgive us if we were to make any 
unnecessary delay and spoil the dinner she has 
ready for us. Early to-morrow morning I shall 
bring you down here and swing you to your 
heart’s content.” 

“And is that the very ’zact swing where you 
played when you were a little boy a long, long, 
long, long, long time ago?” 

“Here, here! you are rubbing it in a little too 
hard, Berta! I am not quite antediluvian.” 

“Who is Auntie Louvie, Daddy? is she like Aunt 
Mandy?” 


126 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Not exactly; though some may consider Aunt 
Mandy rather antediluvian. How does this view 
of the house please your fancy, Mary?” 

“It is perfect, Father, just perfect!—the house 
and everything, no matter which view we see!” 
And Mary’s admiring gaze wandered from the 
stately, old colonial mansion over the surrounding 
lawns and grand old trees. With the exception of 
the conversation relating to the convalescent 
home, she had been very quiet during the long 
drive. In her eyes was the same tenderly proud 
light which shone in her mother’s, and like Mrs. 
Selwyn, she was wholly unconvinced by her fath¬ 
er’s denial of any personal element in the rejoic¬ 
ings. Some of Pompey’s words had sent her 
thoughts speeding hack over two years to that 
moonlight evening in Georgia, when, with Wil- 
helmina and her brothers, she had listened to old 
blind Ephraim’s sad story of her mother’s first 
visit to her father’s home. She contrasted her 
utter loneliness of that period with the wonderful 
happiness of the past six months; and in her heart 
welled up a song of gratitude that the loved ones 
whom she had never expected to see again in this 
world had been restored to her, and that faithful 
old Ephraim had lived to hear of this triumphant 
home coming. 

The carriage stopped at last; and grouped on 
the veranda about the massive doorway stood 
Aunt Cynthy and the rest of the house servants. 


daddy’s old home 


127 


The faces of the older ones beamed with joy as 
their beloved “Massa Rob” stepped from the car¬ 
riage and ascended the broad, low steps, shaking 
hands with all. Standing on the veranda with his 
wife and little ones beside him, he listened to the 
address of welcome delivered by Ebenezer Henry 
Clay Jackson, the oldest darkey on the place; then, 
presenting Mrs. Selwyn and the children, he ex¬ 
pressed his gratitude for the warm welcome and 
his happiness at being once more among them in 
the old home, concluding with the wish that all 
would enjoy the jollification of the evening—a 
dance followed by a feast, in regard to which Mr. 
Clyde had already received instructions. His 
emotion, as he turned and entered his old home, 
was very evident to Mrs. Selwyn and Mary, who 
kept close to him, one on each side. Together they 
paused a moment in the long, wide hall, so differ¬ 
ent from anything the little girl had ever seen in 
a private house; for the floor was paved with large 
slabs of smooth stone, covered here and there 
with rugs, and the walls and high arched ceiling 
were of the same material. Mr. Selwyn led the 
way into the large room on the left, the walls of 
which were lined with well-filled bookshelves reach¬ 
ing to the walnut-paneled ceiling. But it was not 
these which drew from Mary her little exclamation 
of surprise. She stopped short, her eyes fixed on 
a life-sized portrait over the mantel—a portrait so 
like her father if only he were twenty-five years 


128 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


older, that there was no need of the question which 
would otherwise have risen to her lips. 

“Ah, it is perfect! The artist told me about it. 
My sister had it done shortly before—” Mr. Sel- 
wyn crossed the room and stood gazing at the 
speaking likeness of his father of whose death he 
heard a month after it had occurred. Then, 
folding his arms on the mantel shelf, he dropped 
his head upon them. In an instant his wife was 
beside him; and Mary, with an arm about each lit¬ 
tle sister, quietly drew them across the hall into 
the great drawing-room with its massive furniture 
and imposing portraits dating back through the 
years to colonial days. 

“What’s the matter, Mary? why does Daddy 
feel so sorry?” whispered the little ones. 

“He had never seen that picture of his father, 
and it made him remember something very sad. 
Let us look at the pictures in here. This must be 
Grandfather when he was younger than Father is 
now, and this is Grandmother. Wasn’t she beau¬ 
tiful? And all these others must be Father’s 
great-grandfathers and -mothers and uncles and 
aunts, who lived ever so long ago. See how old- 
fashioned their clothes are.” 

* ‘ Oh, oh! see that man with white curls hanging 
down, and all lace and ruffle things, and buckles 
on his shoes, and—and—” 

“Yes, Berta, that is the way the men dressed in 
George Washington’s time.” 


daddy’s old home 


129 


“And I s’pose this lady lived when Krissifer- 
clumbus came in his nice boat,” suggested Beth. 

“Not quite so long ago, Bethy; but from her wig 
and the style of her dress, I’m sure she lived a 
great, great many years ago.” 

“Longer than when Daddy was a little boy?” 
Berta’s tone was decidedly incredulous. 

“Oh, yes, Berta. It isn’t such a dreadful long 
time since Father was little.” 

“Why, no, Berta, in course not. Daddy went 
to school with Georgie Washingtubs, you know.” 

“But—but, Beth, are you quite sure? I think 
it was Abe Linkum. Don’t you ’member, honey? 
And LTncle Frank knew Krissiferclumbus and 
went riding in his nice boat, didn’t her, Mary?” 

“I think you are both making a little mistake.” 

“But—but—w—well, then, how does ev’ybody 
know about Georgie Washingtubs and Abe Lin¬ 
kum and Krissiferclumbus if nennybody didn’t go 
to school with them?” 

“We read about them in books, Berta. But 
who do you think these little children are?” 

The twins gazed earnestly at the group consist¬ 
ing of two handsome little boys and a sweet tiny 
girl; then Berta observed carelessly, “Oh, I 
’spects they must be the chilluns of some of these 
funny old ladies and gemmans.” 

“But—but,” Beth’s eyes traveled from the pic¬ 
ture to Berta and back again, “the biggest little 
boy looks ’zactly like Berta.” 


130 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Hm, he’s a very nice little boy,” was Berta’s 
complacent comment. 

“Don’t you know who he is, Berta?” 

“7 know, Mary, I know! It’s Daddy when he 
was a little boy a long, long, long time ago. And 
the other boy and the little girl are his brother 
and sister.” And Beth clapped her hands tri¬ 
umphantly. 

“Yes, Uncle Alfred and Aunt Bertha. Isn’t she 
a darling little thing?” 

Berta’s eyes flashed ominously, and her voice 
shook with indignation. “Mary! I’m on the shock! 
Calling Aunt Bertha a darling little thing! No, no, 
she was bad! Bad!” the last word emphasized 
with a vigorous stamp of her little foot. “She 
held me tight and wouldn’t let me go with Mother 
and Beth in the little boat—” 

Mary was amazed at the sudden outburst. She 
had not realized how clearly her little sister re¬ 
membered the details of the wreck in which the 
jealous aunt deliberately separated the child from 
her mother. “But, Berta, Aunt Bertha was as 
sorry as she could be before she died. Don’t you 
remember the letter she wrote Uncle Frank?” 

“No, I don’t ’member nenny letter at all. I jes’ 
’member I was ’fraid of her eyes; and ’sides, she 
wouldn’t let me go to heaven with Mother.” 

“0 Berta! you mustn’t feel that way about it. 
She was sorry and God forgave her, and so must 
you. It would be wrong not to. Poor Aunt Bertha 


daddy’s old home 


131 


was never taught to be good. Her mother died 
when she was so young, and she had her own way 
about everything, and her teachers didn’t tell her 
about God and our Blessed Mother and the angels. 
So she couldn’t be expected to be as good as 
Father and Mother and all those we know. But 
God turned even the bad thing she did into good 
for us; for if you had gone in the lifeboat with 
Mother and Beth, you would never have come to 
Maryvale, and Aunt Bertha would never have 
written that letter. Mother wasn’t in Heaven at 
all, you know; and I think we ought to be so thank¬ 
ful for the way everything turned out that we 
would forgive Aunt Bertha. Don’t you think we 
would be very stingy if we didn’t?” 

“Ye—es—s, Mary.” 

“I knew you would feel that way about it when 
you understood how it was. And this picture of 
Aunt Bertha shows her when she was about two 
years old. She couldn’t have been very bad then. ’ ’ 

“She’s a very nice little girl,” admitted Berta, 
politely; “but—but Beth is ever so much sweeter, 
1 think.” 

“Of course she is!” Mary was glad that she 
could give a hearty approval to this opinion. “And 
now let us see what is in here.” She led the way 
into the adjoining room. 

“A pinanny! We can practice ev’y single morn¬ 
ing-time, Berta, same as at Bird-a-Lea, and make 
up some beauty new pieces before Uncle comes.” 


132 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“But dear, me, Beth! We haven’t touched the 
pinanny for such a drefful long time that I’m quite 
sure our fingers are as stiff as ev’ything.” The 
remarks of her elders had not been lost on Berta. 

“See this.” Mary drew her fingers across the 
strings of a harp, which stood in a corner of the 
room. “Mother used to play the harp, and I am 
going to ask her to teach me while we are here. ’ ’ 
Retracing their steps, they strolled down the 
hall to the spot where the walls were broken by 
arches. Under the one on the left, the hall led to 
the carriage entrance; the one on the right shel¬ 
tered the massive stone staircase, beneath the 
landing of which was a great, open fireplace where 
big logs were burning and crackling cheerfully; 
for spring was not sufficiently advanced to do 
away altogether with fires. 

“Isn’t it all just too lovely and old-fashioned 
for anything ?” exclaimed Mary. “Wilhelmina’s 
home can’t be nearly so old as this is. Of course, 
hers is old-fashioned in a way; but everything 
about this house, doorknobs, woodwork, and all, 
makes me feel as if I were living in a story book.” 

While Mary and Beth stood admiring the 
quaintly chiseled newel post, Berta set out to do a 
little exploring on her own account. Something 
behind the partly open double doors at the end of 
the main hallway had caught her eye and now drew 
her irresistibly in that direction. But all her 
strength was not sufficient to push the doors wider 


daddy’s old home 


133 


open, and she was obliged to content herself with 
peeping in at the table set for dinner. Her little 
nose wrinkled comically as she sniffed the appe¬ 
tizing odors wafted to her from regions unseen; 
and when an elderly Negro entered the room and 
began to pour the water, she sped back along the 
hall to the library, meeting her father and mother 
in the doorway. 

“Dinner? Surely, pet, we shall have some din¬ 
ner very soon. Here is someone to announce it. 
Well, well, Scip, how are you? I looked for you 
at the gates and again on the porch, but hesitated 
to inquire for you, fearing I should hear that you 
had ‘crossed Jordan.’ How are you?” 

“Ah’s poahly, Massa Eob, poahly, t’ank Gawd!” 
The old man’s appearance certainly belied his 
words. “An’ as fo’ bein’ at de gates or on de 
veranda to tell yo’ alls ‘Howdy,’ Ah ’lows Ah jes’ 
nach’ly dussent do dat ’foah Ah had de oppo’- 
tunity fo’ to ’splain ma absence on a fo’mah 
’cashun. None ob us niggahs, ’cept ole Eph’um, 
s’pichuned why fo’ we wuz sent off to de woods 
de oddah side ob town fo’ a pickanick dat day. 
A r aw;-suh! An’ he nebah done tol’ us nuffin’, ’kase 
he knowed mouty well dat he’d nebah be ’lowed 
to stay anoddah night on de ole place ef’n he done 
tol’ de res’ ob us niggahs, an’ he knowed yo’ 
wanted fo’ him to stay heah, Massa Eob; an’ he 
’lowed dat he could ’splain ’bout de res’ ob us 
gwine off to dat pickanick in ign’ance ob de con- 


134 


THE SELWYNS IN' DIXIE 


eomstances ob de ’cashun. But Ah’s alluz ben 
’feahed dat ole Eph’um nebah done ’splained it 
propahly, nohow; so Ah reckoned as how Ah’d 
bettah do dat ’splainin’ ma own self.” 

“ Ephraim did explain it thoroughly, Scip; so 
set your mind at rest on that point. And now 
you must meet my wife and my little namesake. 
Elizabeth, this is Scipio Africanus Major, who 
saved my father from certain capture by the Yan¬ 
kees on one occasion.” 

Scip’s bow rivaled Pompey’s. “An’ Ah hopes 
yo’ ain’t got no feelin’s agin us, Missus?” 

“No, indeed, Scipio. I am delighted to meet 
you all. My husband has often spoken of you and 
Pompey and many others who were so good to him 
in the old days.” 

“Yo’ doan’ tell me!” Scip’s black face ex¬ 
panded visibly. “An’ dis li’l lady am de spit ob 
him, she suttinly am! But huccome she am named 
fo’ yo’, Massa Rob? ain’t dey no li’l boys in de 
f ambly ? ’ ’ 

“None living, Scip, Our eldest child was Rob¬ 
ert, but he died in infancy. So, as my wife was 
determined to keep the name in the family, we 
called this little girl Roberta.” 

“Very happy to make your ’quaintance, Mr. 
Scip.” Berta had been anxiously awaiting her 
opportunity. 

“Lawd lub yo’, li’l missy! Ah ain’t no mistdh! 
Dey ain’t no mistahs ’round heah ’cep’n yo’ pa 


daddy’s old home 


135 


an’ Mistah Clyde. Ah’s jes’ Scip—ole Scip what 
knowed yo’ pa an’ his pa befoah him.” 

“Oh, did you know my daddy when he was a 
little boy a long, long—” Berta caught the twinkle 
in her father’s eye. “Well,—not such a drefful 
long time ago, but jes ’ kind of long. And did you 
know Georgie Washingtubs and Abe Linkum and 
Krissiferclumbus and all those funny old ladies 
and gem’mans hanging up in there?” 

“Ah doan’ perzactly ’member habin’ de honah 
ob meetin’ all ob dem grand folkses, li’l missy; 
but Ah’s suttinly done heahed tell ob dem gemp- 
lums what yo’ jes’ done mentioned, ’tic’lahly 
Marse Abe Linkum; an’ Ah ’lows as how Ah kin 
say dat Ah knows all yo ’ fo ’cestahs by sight. But 
dinnah’s ready, Massa Rob, an’ yo 9 knows ma ole 
Cynthy! He! he! he! She ain’t changed a mite. 
Jes’ as perky wif dat ’tatah mashah or dat rollin’ 
pin on her ole man’s haid as she ebah wah; she 
suttinly am!” 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE 

“Listen to the twinnies, Mother!” Mary and 
her mother sat at the sunny end of the veranda, 
writing letters; and the delighted squeals of the 
two little ones were carried to them on the fresh 
morning air. “I’m afraid Father will be sorry 
he promised to swing them as long as they please, 
for they never get tired of that.” 

“We shall have to keep an eye on them to pre¬ 
vent any attempt at a 1 stand-up’ swing, such as 
Berta pleaded for. I feel a little anxious, too, 
about the stream at the foot of the hill.” 

‘ 4 Father spoke of having wire netting run along 
the bank; so that ought to make it safe enough. 
Well, I think I have told Aunt Mary everything.” 
And the little girl re-read the following letter: 

Dearest Auntie, 

Last evening I could not help wishing that you 
and Uncle were here to see how glad everyone was 
to have Father back again. [Then followed a de¬ 
scription of the scene at the station and the wel¬ 
come to Cedar Ridge.l 

After dinner, Father showed us the whole house 
except the attic. He says that must be saved for 
a rainy day when we cannot be outdoors. The 
house is too old-fashioned for anything. It is 
very broad across the front, but not so deep. The 
drawing-room and library are much wider than 
136 


THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE 


137 


long. Father’s den is just back of the library and 
the music room is opposite. The dining-room and 
another large room just like it run across the back 
of the house, and are separated by panels which 
can be folded back against the walls so as to make 
one big room for a great dinner party or some 
such thing. The kitchen is built away from the 
house and connected with it by a covered passage¬ 
way. The front staircase would surprise you. It 
is all of stone, and so are the walls beside it and 
the high arched ceiling over it. Father told us 
the reason for this is that Geoffrey Selwyn, who 
built the house, was once visiting a friend in a 
country place in England when fire broke out dur¬ 
ing the night, and before anyone knew it, the lower 
hall and the stairway were burning. They had to 
tie sheets together for ropes and lower themselves 
from the windows; but the father of the family 
and two of the children were burned to death. So 
when our great-uncle planned this house, he was 
careful to have the staircase and lower hall made 
of something that could not burn. 

Upstairs there are a great many bedrooms. 
Father says that in olden times before the rail¬ 
road was built, when guests came from a distance 
they stayed several days at least. My room is 
over the hall leading to the carriage entrance. I 
just wish you could see it. The walls are pale 
blue with wild roses trailing over the ceiling and 
around the border. There are three long windows 


138 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


close together, opening out like shutters on the 
porch over the carriage entrance. They have little 
diamond-shaped panes of glass in them; and on 
each side of them is a cute, little, oval-shaped 
window. And the furniture! The bed is a great 
big four-poster piled so high with feather beds 
that I thought I would need a stepladder to get 
into it. I did have to push a chair to the foot of it 
and climb in that way so as not to flatten the 
feathers at one side and roll out again. 

There is no electric light or gas or steam heat 
in the house. Those things would seem all out of 
place. We have candles and lamps and open fire 
places instead. You can’t imagine how quaint 
everything is. 

There are stories connected with some of the 
guest rooms, especially with the one that is just 
beside the great chimney of the fireplace in the 
lower hall. I can hardly wait to hear them; but 
Father says he cannot tell the most interesting 
ones until after the twins have gone to bed, be¬ 
cause there is a great secret in them, and Berta 
and Beth are not old enough to keep it. 

This morning after breakfast we walked around 
outdoors and saw the horses and dogs and chickens 
and geese and all such things. The barns are im¬ 
mense, and in one of them there are the funniest 
old carriages. You just ought to see the coach. 
They don’t dare move it for fear it will fall to 
pieces. 


THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE 


139 


Between the barns and the fields are the gran¬ 
aries and other store houses; and running back 
from them to the edge of the woods is a long lane 
bordered with shade trees. There are little cabins 
for the darkies on each side of it. Every fall a 
prize is given to the family which has had the 
prettiest flower garden in front of the cabin. 
Father says this makes the darkies particular 
about the way their little homes look. There is a 
meeting house down near the woods; and opposite 
it is a long, low building where they have a feast 
and a dance on all big days. Last night they had 
a celebration in honor of Father. They are so glad 
to have him back. I am afraid they don’t care 
much for Mr. Clyde, the overseer. He seems to 
be a stiff, cold sort of man. Pompey says that is 
because he was not born and raised on the place. 
To hear him and old Scip talk, anyone would think 
the slave days are not over; though Father says 
the darkies never were slaves on this plantation 
after his great-uncle came here. 

We are expecting Uncle and Aunt Mandy very 
soon. I know they will just walk in and surprise 
us some evening while we are at dinner. 

Give my love to all the Sisters and girls, but 
keep the most for yourself from 

Your loving 

Mary. 

Having folded and addressed the letter, Mary 
waited until her mother had finished hers, then 


140 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


asked, * 1 Do you know tlie history of Cedar Bidge 
from the very beginning, Mother V 9 

“Yes, Mary, Father told me the whole story 
on our way here thirteen years ago. To begin at 
the very beginning, we must go back to England 
in the first quarter of the eighteenth century. 
Geoffrey Selwyn of whom Father has already 
spoken, was an unmarried man. After the death 
of his younger brother, Bobert, he became the 
guardian of his two children, a boy and a girl 
whose mother, also, was dead. When the boy, 
Bobert, was twenty-one or -two years of age, his 
sister married, and he and his uncle decided to pay 
a visit to a distant cousin, Arthur Ward, who had 
not long before come to Virginia. Geoffrey and 
Bobert Selwyn more than enjoyed plantation life; 
but after a month, their host developed a serious 
illness which soon proved fatal. Before his death, 
he asked Geoffrey to assist his young wife in dis¬ 
posing of the property, and to see her aboard a 
ship that would take her back to England to her 
own relatives. 

“A few days after the funeral, Mistress Ward, 
when discussing her plans, declared that it was 
her intention to set free her slaves. Her husband 
had objected strongly to the principle of slavery, 
but he was not in a position to hire the hands 
necessary to work the plantation. However, he 
had always tried to treat the darkies kindly, and 
they were happy and contented; and Mistress 


THE STORY OT CEDAR RIDGE 


141 


Ward’s only anxiety was that, when free, they 
would be homeless. Geoffrey and Robert soon 
relieved her on that point. They offered either to 
purchase her property or to take it in exchange 
for their English home. The Negroes who wished 
to remain on the place would always have a home 
and be kindly treated in return for a reasonable 
amount of honest labor. Mistress Ward carefully 
explained this to the hands; and with the excep¬ 
tion of a few adventurous spirits, they joyfully 
accepted Geoffrey Selwyn’s terms. Even some of 
those who set out as free men to see the world 
came back sooner or later to the old place. 

“Mistress Ward sailed for England, and the 
two men settled down in earnest to plantation life. 
After a year or two Robert married, and this 
house was built to receive his bride. Many and 
many an interesting story it might tell if it could, 
and doubtless Father knows some of them and is 
saving them for chilly evenings when we gather 
around the big fireplace. He was certainly very 
mysterious about that guest room just west of the 
great staircase. 

“But the fairest story that can be told of Cedar 
Ridge is that the name of Selwyn has never been 
connected with slavery. Robert Selwyn’s children 
and his children’s children and so on down through 
generation after generation were thoroughly im¬ 
bued with a horror of trafficking in human beings; 
and so, year after year, though calling themselves 


142 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


‘Marse Selwyn’s niggahs,’ the darkies, with oc¬ 
casional exceptions, have lived on here like happy, 
contented children, well-fed, well-housed, cared for 
in health and in sickness, absolutely devoted to 
the family, as you see them to-day/’ 

“Oh, I am so, so glad that has always been the 
way, Mother. Even in cases where the slaves 
were kindly treated, it wasn’t right to buy and sell 
them as if they were horses and cows and sheep. 
But in that picture of Grandfather in the drawing¬ 
room, he wears a Confederate uniform; so he must 
have fought for the South.” 

“He did fight for the South; but both South and 
North insisted that the war was not begun on ac¬ 
count of slavery. The South claimed that it was 
fighting for its constitutional rights; the North, 
that it was fighting to preserve the Union. You 
will understand the subject better after you have 
studied about it in history.” 

“Mother, do you—what do you think of Mr. 
Clyde?” 

“I have thought very little about him in any 
way whatever, dear. One can scarcely form an 
opinion on so slight acquaintance. We have met 
him only three times, you know, and then for a 
very few minutes. Why do you ask?” 

“I can’t help wondering about him. He looks 
so cold and stern. He isn’t one bit friendly with 
the old darkies as Father is. I really think that 


THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE 


143 


Pomp and Scip look down on him. They act as if 
they think he has no right here.” 

“Yes, I have observed that they look upon him 
as an outsider—as one not ‘bohn and riz on de 
ole place/ as Pompey expressed it yesterday. But 
they can hardly be blamed for feeling as they 
do. He is the first overseer that Cedar Ridge has 
known—the ‘Marse Selwyn’ of each generation 
has always superintended the work and looked 
after his own affairs. But while none of the fam¬ 
ily was here, it was necessary to have a competent 
person in charge. Otherwise, the place would not 
be in its present flourishing condition, and the 
darkies themselves would have suffered. Mr. 
Clyde cannot be expected to take the same interest 
in them as Father does. Father has known all 
but the youngest generation since his babyhood. ’’ 

“Ye—es,—Mother,—that makes all the differ¬ 
ence in the world. Still, Mr. Clyde might nod and 
smile and not be quite so—so stiff when he goes 
about among them.” 

“Perhaps he felt somewhat embarrassed to be 
giving directions in the presence of ‘Massa Rob.* 
The hands have probably expected Father to take 
over the entire management of the place; but 
Uncle does not wish him to do so until he is 
stronger. Later on he will give Mr. Clyde a vaca¬ 
tion and try his hand at farming.” 

“Mother, do you think Uncle might come to¬ 
day?” 


144 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“No, dear, I do not expect him to-day.’’ 

“Oh! oh! you know something, Mother! Your 
eyes are twinkling as they do whenever you have 
a secret!” 

“But why should there he any secret about 
Uncle’s coming? You saw his letter that was 
waiting here for Father, and there was nothing in 
it to lead us to think that he is coming at once.” 

“I know that, Mother; but I saw Father hand 
you a letter that was waiting for you, too; and 
you haven’t said one word about it.’ f 

“Wouldn’t that in itself be a sign that it would 
not interest you?” 

“Hm! It might be, and it might not. But I 
shall keep my eyes open. We can never be too 
wide awake for Uncle, you know. He is just as 
fond of surprising people as the rest of us are. 
I think I shall go down every evening to meet the 
train and just surprise him a little bit,—that is, if 
Pompey will leave the frisky grays at home. Here 
come Father and the twinnies, and he has the 
mail. ’ ’ 

4 4 0 Mother! come down and let Daddy give you 
a most ’lightful swing same as he did Beth and 
me. He made us go as high, as high, oh, ’most as 
high as the house, I’m quite sure.” 

“Yes, Mother; and if Tobe didn’t come with 
the letters, Daddy was going to swing us some 
more.” 

“A letter for me, Father? I didn’t expect one 


THE STORY OF CEDAR RIDGE 


145 


to-day. Why, it’s from Wilhelmina! I wonder 
what is the matter. She never writes until she 
hears from me. Isn’t there anything from Uncle 
Frank!” 

“Not a line, Mary. Perhaps to-morrow’s mail 
will bring something.” 

Mary, knowing that Wilhelmina would have 
something to say about the story, slipped away to 
read the letter alone. 

Dear Mary, 

Why in the world dont you write and send me a 
chapter of the story. I spose you will say you 
have not had time to take off your wraps but it 
seems ages and ages since you left us. Dear me 
Mary I am nearly dead I can tell you . Miss 
Walker is just piling work onto me thick as lasses. 
She says I have to make up for lost time. I wish 
Uncle Frank was here. He would never let her 
make me study so hard. When he gets to Cedar 
Eidge ask him to write to Father and tell him it 
is dangerus for me and that after all the time he 
wasted keeping me from dyeing when I was so 
sick he thinks they ought to take better care of 
me. Anything Uncle Frank says goes around 
here. I hope you wont meet any girl you will like 
better than me. Eemember Mary we adopted each 
other for really truly sisters. I think this is the 
very longest letter I ever wrote in all my livelong 
life. But I know you are not very perticklar 
about the spelling and commas and things in a 


146 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


letter from me. You can put in the commas where 
you think they ought to go if you want to. I don’t 
mind. And the postrofys too. And do send some 
of the story. I don’t see how I am ever going to 
get time to draw the pictures though. Miss 
Walker tags around after me like a pollise-man. I 
dont care. I have a few hidding places she doesnt 
know about so when the story comes I am going to 
play hooky and kite off to one of them and draw 
all day long. Give my love to Aunt Lisabeth and 
Uncle Eob and hug the twinnies for me. 

Your undyeing 

WlLHELMINA. 


CHAPTER XV 

AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION 

“ ‘Rain, rain, go away, 

Come again some other, 

Little folkses want to play.’ ” 

So sang the twins, dancing into the dining-room 
the following morning. 

“Oh, don’t say that. We are going to play in 
the attic to-day; don’t yon remember?” 

“But—but, Mary, Ebeneasy is going to make 
ns a cute little boat; isn’t he, Berta?” 

“Yes, a most beauty boat with sails—” 

“ ’Zactly like Krissiferclumbus’s—” 

‘ 1 Only nicer, so we can put our paper dollies in 
it and give them a ride.” 

“And he’s going to ride it on the pond where 
the little chickies go to take a bath.” 

“You mean ducklings, dear.” 

“Yes, Mother, duckies. And it’s going to be 
the most fun. But the old rain won’t let us do it.” 

“Never mind. It will probably be fine to-mor¬ 
row.” Mr. Selwyn laid aside the morning paper 
and took his place at the table. 

“But is it quite safe, Father, for such little 
folks to play about the pond?” Mrs. Selwyn had 
not altogether lost her fear of water. “Eben- 
ezer does not appear to be very active.” 

“No, I should not like to have them alone with 
him in the neighborhood of it for that very rea- 
147 


148 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


son. He is perfectly trustworthy, however, and 
will be invaluable when they wish to wander about 
through the woods. I shall tell him to arrange 
sailing hours at times when one or other of us 
can be there. Lije will attend to the wire netting 
along the bank of the stream; but I think the pond 
is sufficiently far away to be quite safe as it is. ’ ’ 

“Will you come up to the attic with us, Fath¬ 
er !” asked Mary as they were leaving the table. 

“I have some letters to write before train time, 
but I shall go up later to see how the explorers 
are getting along.” 

“Do, Father. There must be ever so many 
things up there that you can tell stories about.” 

“There is one thing, at least; but you will never 
find it.” 

“Oho! if it is still there, we shall find it, 
Father.” 

“Here are two keys that I came across yester¬ 
day. They will be of use to you; and I shall give 
a ten dollar gold piece to the one who discovers 
the secret. She will have to be smarter than all 
the Johnnie Bulls and Yankees who have searched 
the old attic for a richer prize. But I am per¬ 
fectly sure that I shall not be one cent poorer 
when we sit down to luncheon.” And Mr. Selwyn 
chuckled as he passed into his study. 

In the upper hall Mary paused. “But where 
are the attic stairs, Mother? I tried to find them 
yesterday.” 


AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION 


149 


4 ‘Father should have offered to give a prize to 
the one who discovers them, too,” laughed Mrs. 
Selwyn. “One would expect them to lead up from 
this hall. Perhaps there are none, and that is why 
Father feels so safe about his wager.” 

“No stairs, Mother! Then how did anyone 
ever get up to the attic?” 

“A ladder and a trapdoor would provide a way; 
but I have seen neither.” 

“Mother! The room that Father was so mys¬ 
terious about!” 

They entered a large bedroom beyond the stair¬ 
case. The windows looked out on a balcony; but 
to all appearances, there was nothing unusual 
about the apartment. 

“There is a door which must lead somewhere, 
and it does not open out on the staircase. It is 
too far above the landing for that. Nothing very 
mysterious here.” Mrs. Selwyn opened the door, 
disclosing the object of their search built between 
the walls of the bedroom and the front stairway. 
“Be careful, little folks, the stairs are very, very 
steep. Wait here until I open the door above, 
when there will probably be a little more light 
thrown on them.” 

Mary noticed that the walls of the space where 
they stood, as well as those enclosing the stair¬ 
way, were wainscoted with heavy oak panels; but 
an exclamation from her mother drew her atten¬ 
tion to the open door above, and the children as- 


150 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


cended with more haste than prudence, echoing 
Mrs. Selwyn’s little cry of surprise as they 
stepped into the big, bright attic. It had evidently 
served as a playroom for many generations of 
little Selwyns. With a squeal of delight, the twins 
made for a large rocking-horse which Berta 
reached first and mounted in triumph. 

‘ ‘ See, Beth, see! he has fur, ’zactly the same as 
our ponies, and long, long hair and a really tail. ’’ 

“0 Berta! please let me get on, too. He’s so 
big I’m quite sure they’s room for both of us.” 

“Look at this, Beth!” Mary drew a tiny tricycle 
into the center of the room. “Anyone would think 
it had been made specially for you with its blue 
velvet seat. Berta has the horse, and you have the 
carriage.” 

“But my carriage doesn’t need a horse, so it’s 
a ’sheen—I mean a ma-chine; and I can drive ev’y 
whichy way I like to go; but Berta’s horse can 
only go standing still.” 

Leaving the little ones to enjoy themselves, 
Mary and her mother wandered about, examining 
the old toys and books with which the room was 
well stored. 

“It is evident that the housecleaning extended 
up here, for though dingy and worn, everything is 
dustless and ready for use. See these dolls. How 
the young New Yorkers would laugh at anything 
so quaint. But the little Selwyns of long ago 
loved them quite a-s dearly as children of to-day 


AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION 


151 


love their beautiful imported ones. No doubt, 
many of these came from France and Germany, 
too.” 

“But I thought we would find something more 
than books and children’s things up here, Mother. 
There should be a spinning wheel and chests filled 
with all sorts of old-fashioned clothes and such 
things. There isn’t anything to make one think 
of Father’s secret, either.” 

“As I said down stairs, a door leads some¬ 
where, and there are three in that wall besides 
the one at the head of the stairs. Perhaps behind 
them we shall find a clue to the secret as well as 
the other things you mention.” 

Mrs. Selwyn opened the door nearest them, and 
Mary followed her into a smaller room, which 
was evidently used for storing old furniture and 
ornaments. In one corner stood a spinning wheel, 
and the little girl ran to it. “Mother, how I wish 
I could have this in my room!” 

“You may have it, dear, and anything else that 
takes your fancy. These treasures are all ours, 
you know, and I am sure that it will make Father 
happy to feel that you appreciate them so much. 
See this cradle. Judging from the way the rockers 
are worn, it has served the family well.” 

“But these candlesticks, Mother! I thought the 
ones down stairs must have been in the Ark, but 
these! Oh, I wonder whether the secret might be 
in this room! Still there are no hiding places. 


152 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


Everything is right out before our eyes.” 

“A hiding place that is visible at first sight is 
not a very safe one. The floors, walls, and ceilings 
of these old houses might tell many a secret if 
they could speak. But let us see what is in the 
next room before beginning our search for the 
hidden treasure.” Mrs. Selwyn led the way to 
the door next to that at the head of the stairway. 

“Mother! see that immense chest! I’m sure 
that it is full of lovely things. Do you think we 
can open it? Perhaps one of those keys Father 
gave you will fit it.” 

With some difficulty they turned the big brass 
key in the lock and raised the heavy lid of the 
great cedar box. Such a display of old time finery 
as met their eyes! Gorgeous gowns of faded bro¬ 
cade trimmed in rich lace yellowed by age; hand¬ 
some suits of velvet and satin with lace ruffles at 
the wrists and silver knee buckles. One by one, 
Mrs. Selwyn lifted them from the chest and spread 
them over the neighboring chairs which their 
wearers had so often occupied. A number of 
swords of the styles worn at different periods lay 
on the floor of the chest. 

“But where are the cocked hats and wigs and 
feathers and high-heeled slippers that went with 
these fine things, Mother?” 

“Perhaps in that great clothes-press.” Mrs. 
Selwyn opened one of the doors of a massive ward¬ 
robe built against the wall. Its deep shelves were 


AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION 


153 


piled high, and their contents carefully covered 
with old linen sheets. Removing these, she dis¬ 
played to Mary’s delighted gaze all the furbelows 
needed to complete the costumes on the chairs— 
ribbons and laces, jeweled buckles and sword belts, 
plumed hats and cocked hats, wigs of various 
styles, and satin slippers corresponding in color 
to the beautiful gowns. 

“Wouldn’t it be a splendid game to match all 
these things with the dresses and suits, Mother?” 

“Your little friends would have to know more 
about the different periods of history before they 
could make a success of such a game. What have 
we here?” Mrs. Selwyn opened the other door of 
the wardrobe, showing a compartment in which 
hung riding cloaks and capes. Conspicuous among 
them were the blue and buff of the Continental 
Army and the gray of the Confederate. 

“This one was Grandfather’s.” Mary stroked 
the folds of a heavy gray cloak. “And these must 
have been his boots.” She took out one of several 
pairs which stood on the floor of the compartment. 

“I think those boots were worn in Washing¬ 
ton’s time. These would better suit the gray 
cloak.” Mrs. Selwyn lifted out another pair. As 
she did so, both heard a slight click, but neither 
gave it a thought until, turning to examine more 
of the contents of the wardrobe, Mary gasped and 
pointed to the floor of the compartment, which was 


154 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


slow*y opening upward like the hinged cover of a 
box. 

i 1 The secret! The secret, Mother! ’ ’ 

“Yes, you have evidently won the prize/’ 

“You mean we have, Mother / 9 Mary knelt and 
peered into the opening in the floor. “It is as 
black as night down there. Where does this hole 
lead to?” 

“A hiding place, no doubt.” Mrs. Selwyn 
spoke in a whisper. “If that is the case, we should 
close that door, or it will not be a secret very long. 
I hope Berta and Beth have not heard our excla¬ 
mations.” 

Mary and her mother saw that the trapdoor was 
not merely the floor of one of the compartments 
of the big wardrobe. This piece of furniture was 
immovable, and the trap was really a section of 
the flooring of the room and of the rafters be¬ 
neath. To the under side of the latter, rough 
boards were nailed, and the spaces between them 
and the flooring proper were filled with a coarse 
cement. From a large iron ring fastened to the 
center of the under side of the trap, a heavy rope 
hung into the darkness below; and at some dis¬ 
tance to the right and left of the ring, strong iron 
staples were firmly secured. At each end of the 
trap was a very powerful spring fastened to a 
support beneath the floor level. 

“It seems strange, Mother, that a trapdoor 
leading to a hiding place should open so easily. 


AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION 


155 


In stories that I have read, those searching for a 
priest or anyone supposed to he hiding always 
tossed things about in wardrobes and chests and 
such places. If nothing but the weight of those 
boots holds down this door, no one would have 
much trouble finding it.” 

“You may be sure, dear, that whoever took 
such pains to construct this hiding place used 
every precaution to conceal the entrance to it. 
Something must be seriously out of order.” 

“I do wish Father would come up. I am going 
down to see whether he has nearly finished those 
letters.” 

“And while you are gone, I shall close the doors 
of the wardrobe and call Berta and Beth in to see 
these beautiful things before I return them to the 
chest. Then they will be content to go back to 
their play.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE FAMILY SECRET 

Mr. Selwyn looked up with a smile as Mary 
danced into his study. 

“I came down to remind you of your promise, 
Father. You were so sure we couldn’t find the 
secret that I was afraid you might think it per¬ 
fectly safe to spend that ten dollar gold piece.” 

“That is just what I do think, little daughter. 
Where so many have failed, it is highly improb¬ 
able that you and Mother will succeed.” 

Mary held out both hands. “Five apiece, 
please.” 

“What! What’s that! You don’t mean to 
say—” Mr. Selwyn half rose from his chair, then 
sank back, laughing. “No, no, you have not found 
the secret. It is something vastly more impor¬ 
tant than the old-time finery you have doubtless 
come across.” 

“We found the finery without much trouble, 
Father, and the secret with none at all. Come, see 
for yourself.” 

“Well, as I have sent off the most important of 
my letters, I shall let the others wait until this 
afternoon.” 

When they reached the attic, Mr. Selwyn had 
no little difficulty in escaping from the twins’ 
eager clamoring that he remain to play with them; 
but after promising to show them how to use the 
bow and arrows which hung over the rocking 
156 


THE FAMILY SECRET 


157 


horse, he entered the smaller room and fastened 
the door after him. He did not believe that the 
hiding place had been discovered, but thought that 
something of unusual interest had led his wife and 
Mary to suppose that they had won the prize. He 
was, therefore, much surprised when he saw the 
true state of affairs. 

“You would have been of great assistance to 
the numerous search parties which have ransacked 
this old attic. There has always been a suspicion 
among outsiders that a hiding place exists in or 
about the house; but the most thorough search 
has failed to reveal it.” 

“Mary and I deserve no credit for discovering 
it, Rob. It disclosed itself to us when we were 
least thinking of it.” 

“Ah! then something is seriously out of order. 
You are sure that you did nothing to release the 
catch?” 

“We didn’t know that there was a catch, 
Father. Oh, now I remember! Don’t you, 
Mother? "When we took out those boots, some¬ 
thing clicked, but we paid no attention to it. I 
could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the floor 
of that side of the wardrobe coming up. ’ ’ 

Mr. Selwyn examined the edge of the trapdoor. 
“Hm! the catch is badly worn, and snapped when 
the weight of the boots was removed.” 

“And is there a room down there in the dark, 
Father?” 


158 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“One would scarcely call it a room, Mary; but 
there is quite a space which has proved useful to 
certain gentlemen who wished to escape notice 
for a time. ,, 

“Do you really mean that anyone ever hid 
there?” The little girl’s eyes opened wide in 
astonishment. 

Her father laughed. “Certainly. You ( must 
remember that this house is very, very old and has 
seen some stirring times. The fact that it is 
located somewhat off the beaten track has made it 
a safer refuge than many of the homes in this part 
of the state. Yes, indeed, that cubby hole has been 
highly honored by some of its occupants. George 
Washington himself came very near spending a 
night there. Your grandfather was the last to 
make use of it, as far as I know; and very good 
use he made of it, too, for several days.” 

1 ‘ My grandfather! Your very own father! Oh! 
Won’t I have something to tell Wilhelmina when 
I write to her!” 

Mr. Selwyn regarded Mary quizzically for some 
moments, then quietly remarked, “No one but the 
older members of the immediate family and those 
who have been concealed here have ever known of 
the existence of this hiding place.” 

“Well, I am a great one! Here I am ready to 
tell all I know about it. Of course I shall keep the 
secret, Father. But now that there is no use for 
such places, why should it be a secret any longer? 


THE FAMILY SECRET 


159 


There hasn’t been a war in this country for ever 
so long. It would he a fine place for hiding 
Christmas presents; hut there are ever so many 
good places in the house for such things.” 

“One never knows when a place like this would 
be not merely a convenience, hut a real necessity. ’ ’ 

“You are right, Elizabeth; and mark my words, 
Mary, this hiding hole will he a Godsend some day 
when we least expect to use it. That is why I 
intend to repair the catch at once and to show both 
of you the means of opening and closing the trap¬ 
door.” 

“It is exactly like a story book,” declared 
Mary with a little shiver of delight. 

“Very interesting stories could be written from 
some old manuscripts which I have under lock 
and key downstairs,—accounts of the many times 
this old attic has been searched by the ‘ other 
side’ during some of the wars in which our coun¬ 
try has been engaged. But more of them another 
time.” Mr. Selwyn pushed down the section of 
flooring and removed the boots. “These should 
not be here at all. If one of them should topple 
over and be caught in the side of the trapdoor as 
it is closed, there would be an end of our secret.” 
He closed the door of the compartment and 
called attention to the large, rounded heads of 
the screws holding the hinges in place. “To re¬ 
lease the catch it is necessary merely to loosen the 


160 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


middle screw of the lowest hinge with one’s fin¬ 
gers; and when the trapdoor is again fastened 
down, the screw whirls back into place. Have 
yon come across any candles in your exploring 
expedition? If I had a light, I could give you a 
glimpse of the little room below.” 

“Here is a small piece of one in this old candle¬ 
stick, Father.” 

“That will do nicely. Now, get your bearings. 
These three storerooms occupy the north end of 
the attic. This one is narrower than the other 
two. Can you tell me, Mary, what part of the 
house is immediately under this room?” 

“Let me think, Father. The door of this room 
is nearest the one at the head of the attic stairs, 
and they are built between the wall of that guest 
room and the front stairway. Then the stairway 
is below us—but no, it can’t be, for the chimney 
between the windows here is too narrow. ’ ’ 

“Nevertheless, it is the upper part of the big 
one on the stair landing. Here you see only the 
chimney proper, which is about the same width 
as the fireplace in the lower hall—eight feet. The 
brick structure at each side of the fireplace and 
of the chimney on the landing is mere sham— 
though one side of it is a very important sham, as 
it serves to conceal a passageway leading up from 
the foundation of the chimney to this hiding place. 
The passageway may be entered in two other 


THE FAMILY SECRET 


161 


places: through a panel in the wainscoting of the 
small room next to the big fireplace, and through a 
panel at the foot of the attic stairs. Strong iron 
spikes driven into the walls at regular intervals, 
enable an active person to ascend or descend 
through the passage with little difficulty. The 
chimney is so solidly built that all the rapping and 
tapping of search parties have failed to disclose 
the passageway concealed within its walls. Just 
below this floor it widens out, following the shape 
of the arched ceiling over the staircase. 

“But to return to the hiding hole. You can 
readily see that there must be quite a space on 
each side between the ceiling below us and the 
floor of this room. Our great-uncle, Geoffrey 
Selwyn, was quick to realize the value of such a 
space adjoining the chimney; but he knew, also, 
that the suspicions of a search party would be 
aroused by the spaces which they would see must 
exist over the ceiling in the lower hall as well as 
here over the stairway. Unable to break through 
the stone vaulting or the solid brick walls of the 
adjoining rooms, they would tear up the floors 
above. Therefore, with the assistance of his 
nephew and two trusted servants whom they had 
brought from England, he laid in this room and 
in the upper hall a double flooring, with the space 
between filled with coarse cement. A search party 
would be certain to begin work in the latter place, 
and on tearing up any part of the flooring there, 


162 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


would naturally think that the whole space was 
filled with cement to aid in holding in place the 
stone slabs of the ceiling below. This is what 
actually happened on more than one occasion. 
Disappointed downstairs, they merely removed a 
board or two in the floor up here to assure them¬ 
selves that “the same conditions existed. That 
chest and this wardrobe were, of course, thor¬ 
oughly searched; but the ladder there against the 
wall, leading to the trapdoor in the roof, was quite 
enough to throw them off the scent.” 

Mr. Selwyn lighted the candle and returned it 
to Mary; then let himself down through the open¬ 
ing in the floor. 41 The proper way to descend into 
this little room is to seize the rope with both hands 
and swing down, drawing the trap with one. But 
I wish to show you a means of fastening it so that, 
even should the secret be discovered, anyone hid¬ 
ing down here would still have time to escape 
through the passageway in the chimney. You see 
those staples on the under side of the trap. Just 
above my head here to the right are two strong 
iron bolts which, when the trap is closed, can be 
slipped through those staples on it. The trap¬ 
door is then securely fastened down. Now, Mary, 
let me have the candle, and I shall give you a peep 
at our secret room. This strip of floor on which I 
am standing, though very narrow, extends to the 
wall beside the chimney, so that the fugitive has 
room enough for a little exercise. A few rays of 


THE FAMILY SECRET 


163 


light and a breath of fresh air are admitted 
through spaces which have been made by remov¬ 
ing three or four bricks in that outer wall. There 
is a narrow cot with a comfortable mattress and 
bedding at that end of the room; and one of the 
first duties of the mistress of the house on the 
arrival of a guest who might find it necessary to 
make himself invisible for a time, was to place a 
well-filled basket of provisions down here. So, 
you see, a fugitive would not be so badly off even 
if forced to spend some days in our hiding hole. 
But more of all this another time.” Mr. Selwyn 
climbed out and closed the trapdoor. ‘‘ Berta and 
Beth will grow impatient at this long delay. This 
evening after they have gone to bed, I shall tell 
you of my father’s experience when he was obliged 
to take refuge here.” 

“Oh, dear, me, Father! It’s just too exciting 
to think of living in a house like this. I have read 
stories of secret rooms and hiding holes; but when 
a person hid in them, he usually had to stay there 
until the search party went away—that is, if he 
wasn’t found.” 

“Geoffrey Selwyn had lived in England long 
enough to know the value of a safe hiding place 
and, therefore, spared no pains to make this one 
all that it should be. But you cannot realize how 
perfect it is until you have heard at least one 
of the stories which I shall tell you about it.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 

“Now for the story, Father/’ Mary, who had 
just rejoined her father and mother before the 
big fireplace in the lower hall, seated herself on 
a low stool between them. “The twinnies went to 
sleep the minute their heads touched the pillows. 
They are hoping that it will rain all day to-mor¬ 
row so they can play again in the attic. I must 
say this has been the loveliest rainy day that I 
have ever spent. But this isn't the story, and I 
am so anxious to hear it.” 

“Then let us begin at once. My grandfather 
died in 1860 ; and when the war broke out and my 
father went with his regiment, his mother felt 
very keenly the parting with her only son. He, 
too, experienced no little anxiety at leaving her 
and his two sisters unprotected; but the fact that 
this place is some distance from the main road led 
him to hope that it would be less liable to invasion 
than many of the homes in this locality. And this 
was really the case; for the strip of woodland 
along the road hid the fields from passers-by; and 
the cedars, which at that time grew more thickly 
near the edge of the ridge, effectually concealed 
the house from view. Another thing which greatly 
relieved the whole family was the fact that the 
Negroes here were already free so that the war 
meant nothing to them. The work in the fields 
164 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 165 


went on as well as could be expected with my 
father away; and many a wagon load of grain and 
other provisions found its way to the Confederate 
lines, while the people in the village wanted for 
none of the absolute necessities of life. Of 
course, my grandmother and aunts cut down ex¬ 
penses as much as possible in order to help the 
cause; but my father had the consolation of know¬ 
ing that they were never in actual want as were 
so many of the women and children of the South. 

‘ ‘ During the first two years of the war he found 
it a difficult matter to pay even a flying visit to his 
home; but in the spring of the third year his regi¬ 
ment was stationed some twelve miles north of the 
village, and as there seemed to be a lull in the 
hostilities, he was given a week’s furlough to visit 
his mother. Arriving in the village after sunset 
he learned that no Yankees had been seen in the 
neighborhood for a month or more; so he came on 
without delay. Twilight was fast deepening into 
darkness; and the nearer he approached the ridge, 
the less cautious he became. So busy was he pic¬ 
turing the coming reunion that he completely 
forgot the road into the valley until he reached 
it. Then his heart leaped; for not five hundred feet 
down the main road stood a group of ten or twelve 
Yankees waiting to see who was galloping on to¬ 
ward them. They had no suspicion of the private 
road. Even in the gathering darkness, they rec- 


166 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


ognized the uniform, and springing into their 
saddles, came on in hot pursuit. 

“ Needless to say, my father had not delayed 
for an instant, but had spurred his horse up the 
private road over the stones and boulders which 
had purposely been strewn there to give it a dis¬ 
used appearance. He had the advantage of know¬ 
ing exactly where he was going, and gained the 
gates before the Yankees appeared around the 
bend in the road. Instead of making for the 
house, where he feared he would not be admitted 
without delay, as his sisters bolted and barred the 
doors at sundown, he turned sharply to the left, 
and keeping close to the wall, reached the edge of 
the ridge, where the thick growth of trees and 
shrubbery formed an almost impenetrable screen. 
There he dismounted just as his pursuers swept 
through the gates and up the driveway toward 
the house. He could now have made his escape 
by fleeing back along the road over which he had 
just traveled; but he had no intention of being 
cheated out of his holiday. There were two ways 
by which he could gain an entrance to the house, 
where he wished to be when the Yankees, satis¬ 
fied that he was not in it, began to search the 
grounds. The easier and shorter way was to tie 
his horse where he was, trusting to meet one of 
the darkies whom he could send to remove it to a 
place of safety before the search party should 
come upon it. Then, by making his way in the 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 167 


shadows of the trees and shrubbery to the old 
well which you saw yesterday almost hidden in 
that clump of lilac bushes some fifty feet north of 
the house, he could lower himself into it by means 
of the chain, and when he pressed a small knob 
concealed under the moss, the bottom of the 
cistern would open downward, admitting him to a 
little underground passageway leading into the 
foundation of this chimney. 

“But the fear of running into a sentry made 
him decide on the longer, but safer way. Leading 
his horse along the edge of the ridge and down 
the hill to the stream, he crossed and followed it 
westward to a point opposite the densest part of 
our woods. Recrossing, he made his way to a 
little old hut, almost concealed among trees and 
undergrowth, where he hid the horse. Then he 
ran for the Negro quarters. They were, of course, 
deserted, as the darkies had gathered back of the 
house and around the bams, conjecturing as to 
whom the Yankees were after. Keeping to the 
north of the cabins, my father reached the one 
nearest the granary, and groping about in it, 
found the ladder and climbed to the loft. From a 
tiny window there he could see lights moving 
about in the attic of the house. He wondered 
how many of the handsome walnut panels in the 
dining-room walls and in the wainscoting of the 
next room had been broken into before his pur¬ 
suers were convinced that the walls behind them 


168 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


are of solid brick; and bow much of the flooring 
in tbe upper ball bad been torn up in tlieir fruit¬ 
less search for him.” 

“But you say, Rob, that a panel in tbe corner 
of this next room opens into tbe passageway in 
tbe chimney. Since it is customary for a search 
party to sound a wall before breaking into it, bow 
did that happen to escape notice!” 

“That panel, Elizabeth, like tbe one at tbe foot 
of tbe attic stairs, is backed with bricks properly 
cemented together; so when struck the wood does 
not give out a hollow sound; and if broken into, 
there is a brick wall behind it. Tbe panel opens 
out like a door. To-morrow I shall show you tbe 
means of opening it. A search party wastes little 
time looking for buttons to release springs; they 
simply break into a wall which arouses suspicion.’ ’ 

“But, Father, the loft of a cabin wasn’t much 
of a hiding place. Surely, the Yankees would 
search the barns and every building on the 
grounds.” 

“My father was well aware of that fact, Mary; 
and when he saw that the light had disappeared 
from the attic, he knew he had no time to lose. 
In that particular cabin there is a chimney built 
exactly like this one, but on a smaller scale. That 
cabin has never been occupied; for Robert Selwyn 
of long ago took particular pains to make the 
darkies believe that it was haunted. A ghostly 
figure was seen there more than once, and lights 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 169 


of an unearthly color appeared occasionally. 
Even to-day, you could not persuade a darkey on 
the place to enter that cabin in broad daylight. At 
the right hand end of the chimney, the third brick 
from the wall in the third row from the floor is 
very important. The same is true of the chimney 
in the hiding hole upstairs. A sharp rap on that 
particular brick releases a spring behind it, and 
a section of the chimney opens out just as the 
panel in the next room does. After I have done 
a little house cleaning in the hiding hole, I shall 
show you just how the bricks in the chimney ends 
are laid, and you will see how it was possible to 
construct those doors, which an expert would have 
trouble to detect. Just inside them is a narrow 
ledge. Standing on that, my father drew the door 
closed behind him, felt for the lantern which he 
knew should be hanging on the wall at his right, 
lighted it, and lowered it by means of the attached 
cord to the foundation of the chimney. Climbing 
down himself, he made his way through the tunnel 
which leads into the foundation of this chimney, 
and climbed up through the passageway here at 
our left until he reached the ledge at the opening 
into the hiding hole. There he extinguished the 
lantern; for a ray of light seen through the chinks 
in the outer wall of the little room would betray 
the secret. 

“Entering the hiding hole, my father at once 
slipped the bolts beneath the trapdoor. Then he 


170 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


threw himself on the cot to rest and listen for the 
five distinct clicks of the catch—the signal that a 
member of the family was above. He would have 
felt better satisfied if he could have made his exit 
from the passageway into this next room if only 
for a moment to assure his mother of his safety; 
for he knew she would suspect that he was the 
fugitive. But he feared that one or two Yankees 
might still be prowling about within the house; 
so he thought it better to wait until his mother 
would come up to the attic in search of him, as he 
was sure she would do as soon as the way was 
clear. It was fully an hour before he heard the 
click of the catch on the trapdoor. He waited, 
not knowing whether friend or foe was above.’’ 

“But I should think he could tell by the foot¬ 
steps, Father.” 

“It would require a sound louder than the 
heaviest footsteps to penetrate that thick flooring, 
Mary. But my father was not kept long in doubt. 
The click was repeated five distinct times; so he 
slipped back the bolts, the trapdoor opened, and 
he saw his mother and sisters eagerly peering 
down at him. The fact that the contents of the 
chest and wardrobe were scattered about the floor 
would be sufficient excuse for this trip to the attic; 
and faithful Scip had been left on guard at the 
door of the room opening on the attic stairs to 
give the alarm in case the Yanks decided to revisit 
it. The women had bolted the door at the head of 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 171 


the stairs so that my father would have ample 
time to regain his hiding place. The visit was a 
short one; for my grandmother was anxious that 
my father should have some food. Fearing that 
they would be caught if they tried to carry it up 
to him, the women decided to put it in a basket 
which they would find an opportunity of hanging 
on one of the spikes just inside of the panel in this 
next room. Fortunately, all the Yankees had left 
the house after ordering old Cynthy to prepare a 
meal for them, and my grandmother and aunts 
were able to fill a large basket with food enough to 
supply my father for the next day. 

“For two days those Yanks hung around the 
place, entering the house when least expected and 
prowling about the grounds and through the 
woods. They had an idea that the man they were 
after was the bearer of important dispatches. The 
fact that in the stables there was no horse fit to 
ride puzzled them somewhat, but did not change 
their opinion that the fugitive was concealed on 
the premises.” 

“Then they didn’t find the horse hidden back 
in the woods, did they, Father!” 

“No, Mary; for, from the first, Pompey strongly 
suspected that my father had come home, and 
knew that his horse must be hidden not far away. 
So, while the Yankees were searching the house 
and the grounds around it, Pompey was plunging 
through the woods. Finding the horse, he took it 


172 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


to a safer hiding place known only to himself. 

“On the morning of the third day, to the great 
relief of everyone, the Yankees rode away. But 
Scip was suspicious of their intentions and decided 
to keep his eyes open and to do a little private 
scouting. 

“To satisfy his mother, my father did not show 
himself outdoors; but he laughed at Scip when the 
faithful fellow implored him to continue to sleep 
in his hiding place—though where that was, Scip 
had no idea—or, at least, to have no light in his 
room at night. The only precaution my father 
would take to satisfy him was to occupy the guest 
room at the foot of the attic stairs. The news that 
a regiment of Confederate soldiers had encamped 
just north of the village relieved Scip’s mind to 
some extent; but he refused to go to bed at night, 
and gave my father to understand that three pro¬ 
longed hoots of an owl in the great tree near his 
window would mean that his pursuers were again 
at hand. 

“The first night all went well, and poor Scip 
was rallied by my father for his fears. But the 
second night, well on after midnight, a shower of 
large pebbles roused my father to sudden con¬ 
sciousness of the hooting of the owl outside his 
window. He sprang up, seized his clothing, and 
disappeared through the panel doorway at the 
foot of the attic stairs just as Scip swung him¬ 
self from a limb of the tree to the balcony and 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 173 


leaped through the window. Finding the bed 
empty and his master gone, he got into it himself 
and drew the covering well up around his ears. 
He heard the crash which told him that the 
Yankees had succeeded in forcing their way into 
the house. A moment later they were thundering at 
the bedroom door, which they soon burst open. 
With a triumphant shout they rushed toward the 
bed, but fell back when Scip’s woolly head emerged 
from the blankets and his quavering voice pro¬ 
tested, ‘Why—why—why fo’ yo’ gemplums come 
in heah disaway distu’bin’ de slumbahs ob a poah, 
tiahed niggah what yo’s been prospectin’ to sot 
free ebah sence de wah begun? Ain’t yo’ alls done 
did ’bout ’nuff huntin’ round dis heah place to 
’suah yo’seifs dey ain’t nobuddy to cotch?’ He 
knew that to delay the Yankees for even a few 
minutes might be the means of saving his beloved 
‘Massa Rob’ from falling into their hands; and to 
their questions as to my father’s whereabouts, he 
merely replied, ‘Marse Selwyn done went to fight 
de Yankees neahly three yeahs ago, an’ Ah doan’ 
know whah he am now. ’ 

“My grandmother and aunts, aroused by the 
crash downstairs, now appeared in the doorway. 
Their amazement and relief were great when they 
saw who was in the bed; but to gain more time for 
my father, my grandmother made a fine show of 
indignation at sight of Scip occupying a guest 
room in the house. ‘But, Missus,’ protested Scip, 


174 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


‘ain’t Massa Rob done tole me ’foah he went to 
fight de Yankees, an’ ain’t yo’ done ’mpressed it 
on dis yeah niggah dat Ah’s bound to tek cahe ob 
yo’ an’ de young ladies, leastways when dem d—d 
Yankees comes rampagin’ round heah? An’ now 
why fo’ yo’ go blame poah Scip fo’ doin’ ob his 
dooty good an’ propah, Ah lak to know? Ef’n Ah 
wahn’t in de house perteckin’ yo’alls, what’s gwine 
keep dem Yankees fum runnin’ away wif yo,’ 
huh?’ 

‘ ‘ The soldiers demanded the meaning of the peb¬ 
bles strewn about the floor; but Scip in well- 
feigned surprise asked if they themselves had not 
thrown them in at the window. In disgust, all 
but the leader scattered to search the house. He 
remained to cross-examine Scip, who proved more 
than a match for him. The others soon returned 
and decided to resort to force to compel Scip to 
reveal the hiding place of their prey. Scip up¬ 
braided them. ‘Am dat de way yo’ gemplums fum 
de No’f am gwine compoht yo’seifs towahd a poah 
niggah what yo ’alls ben fightin ’ f o ’ three yeahs to 
sot free? Co’se, yo’ nebah done needed to bothah 
fightin’ fo’ de niggahs on dis place. Marse Sel- 
wyn’s niggahs wuz alwuz free.’ 

“ ‘Free or not free, you are a Southern sym¬ 
pathizer;’ and in spite of my grandmother’s re¬ 
monstrances and protestations that Scip told the 
truth when he denied any knowledge of my fath¬ 
er’s whereabouts, the poor fellow was dragged out 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 175 


of bed. When they found him fully dressed, they 
were still more enraged, and hurried him down 
the stairs and through the lower hall. Suddenly 
he astonished mj r grandmother and aunts by ex¬ 
claiming, ‘Wait, gemplum, wait! Ah’s gwine tell 
yo’ persackly whah Marse Selwyn am. Ah sho’ 
didn’t know upstahs, but Ah knows now. Dali 
he am, waitin’ fo’ to cotch yo’alls! He! he! he!’ 

“The Yanks whirled about to see my father, 
accompanied by twice their number of Confeder¬ 
ate soldiers, standing in the doorway. ‘You are 
our prisoners, gentleman,’ he quietly remarked; 
and covered by the guns of the Confederates, the 
Yankees realized that resistance would be futile 
and yielded with the best grace they could muster. 
It was the work of a moment to disarm them; and 
Scip was made happier than he already was by a 
pair of handsome pistols. 

“After watching his companions ride away with 
the prisoners, my father entered the hall where 
Scip was explaining matters to the women. The 
day the Yankees had taken themselves off, he had 
paid a visit to the Confederate camp and had told 
some of the soldiers of his fears for my father’s 
safety. They promised to come to the rescue at 
any time that Scip would call on them. The regi¬ 
ment had a dog, a great pet, which, when separated 
from the soldiers for any reason, always found 
its way to camp in an incredibly short time. They 
let Scip take this dog with the understanding that 


176 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


the moment it should appear in camp, they would 
set out at full speed for Cedar Ridge. During the 
day, Scip kept the dog locked up in his cabin; but 
at night he had the animal with him, keeping a firm 
hold on the strap attached to its collar. When he 
saw the dark forms of the enemy moving along the 
opposite bank of the stream, he loosed the dog, 
which set out at top speed across the lawn and 
through the fields, while Scip wasted no time 
climbing the tree to warn my father. ‘But huc- 
cum yo’ to know ’bout dem sodjers acomin’ fum 
de camp back yondah, Massa Rob ? ’ he demanded. 
My father assured him that it was only by acci¬ 
dent that he had fallen in with them. He could 
say no more without disclosing the family secret, 
though, personally, I think no one would keep it 
better than poor Scip. After the faithful fellow 
had listened with delight to the expressions of 
gratitude poured out by the family, who drank his 
health with the last bottle of my grandmother’s 
currant wine, he left them together in the dining¬ 
room ; and my father completed his story. Fear¬ 
ing that he would not have time to reach the hid¬ 
ing hole by way of the attic, he had flung his cloth¬ 
ing into the passageway in the chimney and 
climbed down to the foundation to dress. Then, 
groping his way through the tunnel to the old 
well, he drew himself up by means of the chain to 
reconnoiter. Now and then he caught a glimpse 
of the sentry watching the north side of the house; 


HOW SCIP OUTWITTED THE YANKEES 177 


and after a time lie saw a line of dark figures 
emerging from the fields. He realized who they 
were and that they had chosen the bridle path 
through the fields, because their horses would be 
heard on the hard road. Joining them, he helped 
to seize and gag the sentries, who were so intent 
on watching the house that they paid no attention 
to the grounds. So that was one time that the 
Yanks were caught napping/ ’ 

Mary heaved a great sigh. “And to think that 
I can never, never tell this story to anyone, 
Father.” 

“Never is a long time, little daughter. I give 
you full permission to tell it to Uncle Frank as 
soon as he arrives; to Aunt Mary on our return 
to Bird-a-Lea; and to Berta and Beth when they 
are old enough to keep a secret. And it is not 
altogether improbable that you will be sitting here 
before the blazing logs some evening with your 
own boys and girls about you, listening as breath¬ 
lessly as you have done to the story of how the 
Yankees were outwitted by faithful old Scip.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


BAB 

4 ‘So this is where you are!” 

Mary, writing at a massive, richly-carved, wal¬ 
nut desk, which she had noted among the other 
old furniture in the small room of the attic and 
had mentally decided was just the place for her 
literary labors, started at the sound of her moth¬ 
er’s voice. 

“Doctor Wren with his daughter and his little 
grandchild are down stairs, dear. My, my! To 
see all this manuscript strewn about, one would 
think that you are writing a book.” 

The little girl laughed gaily. “That is exactly 
what I’m doing, Mother. It is supposed to be a 
secret between Wilhelmina and me; but in my 
letter to her I told her that I really didn’t feel 
comfortable about having even this kind of a 
secret from you, and that I was going to tell you, 
and she could tell Aunt Etta, but no one else. She 
begged me to write a story about the twinnies, and 
she is drawing the pictures for it. Here are those 
she has finished.” 

“I should enjoy nothing better than to look at 
them and to read as much of the story as you have 
written; but our guests are waiting for us, and 
we must go to them without more delay.” 

“Oh, I had forgotten all about them.” Mary 
gathered up the precious pages of her story and 
178 


BAB 


179 


slipped them into a drawer of the desk; then fol¬ 
lowed her mother down to the drawing-room. 

Doctor Wren was their nearest neighbor, his 
grounds being separated from Cedar Ridge by the 
little stream. Two grandchildren, a boy and a 
girl, made their home with him. The little girl 
was about Mary’s age, and both children were 
delighted at the prospect of good times together. 
To Barbara’s great embarrassment, her grand¬ 
father described her state of mind since the com¬ 
ing of the Selwyns. “ Indeed, she tried to persuade 
us to call the evening you arrived; and in spite of 
the rain, she hovered along the banks of the stream 
nearly all day yesterday, hoping to make Mary’s 
acquaintance in a less formal manner.” 

A patter of little feet in the hall, and the twins, 
fresh and rosy after their nap, appeared in the 
doorway. None of the handsome paintings on the 
walls could surpass the picture which it now 
framed as the little ones stood for a moment 
against the mellow background of the stone wall 
of the hall. Cherry colored ribbons at the neck and 
sleeves of her little white dress set off Berta’s 
dark beauty; while pale blue did the same for 
Beth’s fair loveliness. 

“Oh, you darlings!” Barbara ran and threw 
her arms about them; and Beth, always timid at 
meeting strange grownups, welcomed the delay 
and willingly returned the caresses. But Berta 
wriggled herself free and quickly crossed the room 


180 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


with hand outstretched, and her usual, “Very 
happy to make your ’quaintance. Beth is, too, 
but she doesn’t like to say it so very well, so 
Mother says it’s all right for me to say it for both 
of us, ’cause we’s twins, you know.” 

The Doctor took her on his knee and asked her 
name. 

1 i My name is Berta Boberta Selwyn, ’zactly the 
same as Daddy’s; and my little sister’s is Beth 
Elizabeth Selwyn, ’zactly the same as Mother’s.” 

“And mine is Barbara Estelle Gwendolyn 
Wren.” 

“Barbara!” 

But her aunt’s laughing protest merely called 
forth the explanation: “Why, yes, Aunt Virgie, 
didn’t I tell you about that! I’ve never been able 
to understand why Howard has three names, and 
I have only one. So I wrote down every pretty 
name I heard or saw in books, and then I picked 
out the ones I liked the very best and wrote them 
on separate slips of paper and drew two. A per¬ 
son gets tired of being a ‘plain Jane without 
frizzes,’ you know.” 

The Doctor stiffened visibly. “You bear your 
grandmother’s name, my dear.” 

“I know I do, Grandfather, and I love it and 
want everybody to call me Barbara. But I just 
want a few initials to sign to a letter or a compo¬ 
sition. But you,” giving the twins another hug, 
“may call me Bab for short. Nearly everyone 
does.” 


BAB 


181 


Berta heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad 
they’s a short for it, ’cause I’m quite sure Beth 
and I couldn’t ’member such a drefful long name 
ev’y single time, not ever, ever at all.” 

“Not ever, ever at all,” agreed Beth. 

Then the twins decided that it was time to take 
Bab to see the little gaily-painted sailboats which 
Ebenezer had made for them. As soon as the four 
children were out of hearing of the grown people, 
Bab caught Mary’s hand. 

“You can’t imagine how glad I am that you are 
here at last! Ever since October when your uncle 
was down and told us you were coming, I have 
simply counted the weeks until you would be 
here.” 

“I am just as glad to be here and to know 
someone my own age, Barbara.” 

“Oh, for pity sakes, don’t call me that! Do, 
please, say Bab!” 

“But didn’t you just tell your grandfather that 
you love the name Barbara?” 

“Don’t you ever say anything you don’t mean, 
Mary?” 

“Why—n—no, Barb—I mean, Bab,—at least, I 
always try to say exactly what I mean.” 

“Hm! You couldn’t do that if you lived at our 
house. Why, I spend nearly all my time pretend¬ 
ing I just love things that I really hate— hate! 
Oh, you needn’t look so surprised, Mary! Aunt 
Virgie has to do the same. Dear, me, I’m just the 
lonesomest girl in the whole wide world!” 


182 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“I think I know someone who is even more 
lonely than yon are, Bab. She hasn’t a relative on 
earth that she knows of. Her father, mother,— 
everyone belonging to her is dead. She is a 
boarder at the convent where I go to school—” 

“Oh, that’s so. Yon’re Catholics.” Bab re¬ 
garded Mary with an expression of wonder on 
her freckled little face. “And are there nnns in 
that convent?” 

‘ ‘ Of conrse there are, Bab. They teach the girls 
and take care of them.” 

“I’d just love to see a nnn. I’ve never seen even 
a picture of one.” 

“You haven’t! I think I have seen hundreds 
of sisters. Mother’s sister is one, you know. I 
shall show you her picture before you go home.” 

“Please do. But about that girl. If she has 
the nuns to take care of her and so many girls to 
play with, she simply can’t be as lonely as I am.” 

The twins had gone to find Ebenezer, and the 
two older girls seated themselves on a bench under 
the trees. 

“But you have your grandfather and your aunt 
and your brother, Bab,—” 

“Yes, and didn’t you notice how fond Grandpa 
is of me? 0 Mary, I’ve been just longing for 
someone to talk to—someone of my own age. I 
haven’t a single, solitary girl friend. Just be¬ 
cause Grandpa is a doctor, and we belong to one 
of the oldest families around here, he won’t let 


BAB 


183 


me play with the girls in the village. About twice 
a year, he and Aunt Yirgie and I dress up and 
drive miles to call on some other old families. 
Even where there are children, we just sit up like 
sticks in the parlor. And those girls are regular 
snobs. They smile in a way—oh, you know how I 
mean—because we’re poor, and I haven’t pretty 
dresses and hats like theirs, and—” 

“Why, Bah, I don’t see how anyone could smile 
at that dress you are wearing. It is beautiful ma¬ 
terial and made so prettily. I’m sure I haven’t 
anything half so fine.” 

“But it’s about a hundred years old, Mary. 
Yes, I mean it. It has been made over three times 
and dyed twice; and I don’t know how long Aunt 
Yirgie wore it before I got it, and she found it in 
an old trunk in the attic to begin with. Why, I 
haven’t had a new dress since I came to live with 
Grandpa. And I have worn this one every time 
I have gone to see those girls, and oh, dear, me! it 
must be grand to be rich and to travel as you’ve 
done, and to wear pretty dresses every day! I 
know you didn’t change yours after we came; be¬ 
cause your mother said she had a time finding 
you, and you came right down with her. It’s just 
awful to be poor the way we are.” 

Mary laughed incredulously. “Poor, Bab! You 
can’t.say you are poor when you have such a beau¬ 
tiful home.” 

“Wait until you get closer to it. After being 


184 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


in your house, I’m ashamed to have you come over 
to ours. Why, it’s almost tumbling down, and the 
furniture and rugs are so worn and faded; and 
the grass, the part that’s cut, is full of weeds, and 
the fields are regular jungles. Everything is going 
to rack and ruin. You see, the darkies on our place 
were slaves; and when they were freed, they went 
North. There isn’t one of them left except old 
Ceely, our cook, and Nat, her husband, and he’s 
almost blind. I tell Aunt Virgie we ought to sell 
the place and move to the city so I could go to 
school like other girls. Grandpa won’t let me go 
to the one in the village, but teaches me himself. 
And wait until you see our barns. They’re simply 
falling to pieces, and there’s only one horse, 
Grandpa’s, but he lets Howard ride him whenever 
he pleases. I hardly dare look at him. You see, 
Mary, Howard is a Wren, but I’m not. Oh, no, 
I’m not adopted—I just happen to look like poor 
Mother, and that makes all the difference in the 
world. Grandpa couldn’t bear Mother; and he 
was so angry with Father for marrying her in¬ 
stead of some girl belonging to one of the old 
families he knows that he would never have any 
more to do with him. Mother was a Northerner, 
too, and that made things a million times worse. 
There were only Father and his brother and Aunt 
Virgie; and after Uncle Jack was killed in the 
Spanish-American War, Father should have come 
in for the old place, because Uncle Jack wasn’t 


BAB 


185 


married. But Grandpa never forgave Father, not 
even when Mother wrote and told him that Father 
was dying. I was only two years old then, and 
Howard was five; and after poor Father died, 
Mother was sick for a long time in a hospital and 
that took all the money; and she wasn’t strong 
enough to do hard work, and all her near relatives 
were dead, and she tried her best to take care of 
Howard and me for nearly two years. Then she 
got sick again and just had to write to Grandpa 
for help. Aunt Virgie told me all about it. Father 
was her favorite brother, and she loved Mother 
and tried to coax Grandpa to forgive them and 
have us all come back here to live. But Grandpa 
has a terrible will; and though he worships Aunt 
Virgie, he wouldn’t give in. And Aunt Virgie 
knew just how hard it was for Mother to ask him 
for help for us and to remind him that we are his 
own son’s children, named for him and Grandma 
—she was dead then—and to tell him she didn’t 
ask anything for herself, but if he wouldn’t do 
something for us until she was able to work again, 
she would have to put us in an orphan asylum. 
And then, Mary, then what do you think!” Bab 
tossed back her heavy auburn braids, which had 
fallen over her shoulders, and her brown eyes 
grew black with anger. “He wrote and told 
Mother that he would take his own son’s children 
and bring them up as his own if she would give up 
all claim to us and take some other name besides 


186 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


Wren herself. Poor Mother! When she asked 
the doctor how soon she would be able to go back 
to work, he told her that she would scarcely ever 
be able to support even herself and that she had 
better put us in an asylum. He didn’t know about 
Grandpa. And then Aunt Virgie went to Rich¬ 
mond, pretending she had some shopping to do, 
but really to see Mother. She couldn’t help her 
with money, because Grandpa made her keep an 
account of every cent she spent; but she promised 
Mother to love us and take care of us and never 
let us forget her. So poor Mother gave us up. 
0 Mary! you don’t know what it means! You 
don’t know what it means not to know whether 
your very own mother is dead or alive and poor 
and cold and hungry—” 

Mary’s voice was very low as she put her arms 
about Bab. “I do know, Bab, I do know! Most 
girls wouldn’t understand, but I do. From June 
until the next Christmas I thought Mother and my 
little sisters were down at the bottom of the ocean; 
and then we found Berta, and she told me 
things—” 

“Yes, yes, Mary, of course you know! Oh, 
I’m so glad someone does! Your uncle took din¬ 
ner with us when he was down here last fall, and 
he told us about the shipwreck, and about those 
awful savages in India who took your father pris¬ 
oner so that you all thought he was dead, too. 
Why, it was so exciting that I couldn’t eat a 


BAB 


187 


mouthful, and everyone laughed at me. Your 
uncle was so kind, and he never seemed to notice 
all the darns in the tablecloth and napkins—I must 
say Aunt Yirgie does them beautifully—and he 
brought me over here to choose your room and to 
tell him how to have it done. Didn’t he tell you ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘Not a word, Bab. Uncle is the greatest one 
for surprises, and I couldn’t find out from him 
whether there were any girls of my age living near 
here. And my room is lovely, Bab, lovely! It is 
the very one I would have chosen, and blue is my 
favorite color.” 

“I’m so glad you like it. 0 Mary! You don’t 
know how I felt in there when Grandpa took Berta 
on his knee and patted her head and all that. I 
was just her age when I came to live with him, and 
he never, never so much as kissed me once—not 
once! I look like Mother, and that settles me with 
him. He won’t let Aunt Virgie buy me a single 
new thing. I have to wear all her left-overs.” 

“But if they are all as pretty as the dress you 
are wearing, Bab, I shouldn’t think you would 
mind very much. ’ ’ 

“Yes, you’re saying that to be polite. Why, 
Mary, if I don’t know my lessons perfectly every 
day for him, he sends me to bed early, and won’t 
let me have anything but bread and milk for sup¬ 
per, and treats me as if I were about two years 
old. If I weren’t afraid of being caught and 
clapped into an orphan asylum, I would have run 


188 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


away long ago and found Mother. I have her pic¬ 
ture in a locket, but Grandpa doesn’t know, or he 
wouldn’t let me keep it. But I don’t know 
whether Mother stayed in Richmond, or went back 
North. And I don’t know what name she has 
taken. Aunt Virgie says to be patient, and every¬ 
thing will come out all right. If Howard were 
only different, we could go together to find Mother 
when we are a little older. But all he thinks of 
is getting Grandpa to give him money to spend. 
Grandpa just dotes on him and says he will be 
head of the family, and that Wrenwood must be 
kept in—in—oh, something that means whole for 
Howard. And hundreds of acres going to waste 
when men have offered a good price for the south 
fields. Why, Mary, if he would sell that part of 
the place, Aunt Virgie says we could fix up the 
house and grounds around it and hire someone 
to work part of the land. But no! the place must 
be kept ivhole for Howard; and poor Aunt Virgie 
must skimp and save and patch and darn and mend 
and dye things and make my clothes over and over 
and over so Howard can go to college and be a 
gentleman. Yes, I know it’s awful for me to talk 
like this about my own brother, but I can’t help it. 
I just boil to see Grandpa planning to do so much 
for him when he doesn’t ’predate it. What does 
the old place mean to him? After Grandpa dies, 
he will sell it to the first old land shark that comes 
along, and go off and have a good time with the 


BAB 


189 


money. He’s going now with a crowd of hateful 
boys—oh, yes, they belong to old families and all 
that—but I’d much rather see him with the rough¬ 
est ones in the village. I’m so worried about him, 
and so is Aunt Virgie. She has tried to warn 
Grandpa, but he won’t listen. Of course, she 
loves Grandpa very, very much, and he’s always 
kind to her; and she says if I didn’t look like 
Mother, he would love me just as much as he does 
Howard. But I’m glad I look like Mother, and I 
hope I’ll grow more and more like her every day. 
I’m going to show you her picture when you 
come over to our house. 0 Mary! maybe you 
might meet her some day in New York or some 
other place you happen to visit. And you can tell 
her about me, and* how I long for her every 
day, and how I say the prayers she taught me— 
The Lord’s Prayer and Now I Lay Me Down to 
Sleep —those are all I remember. And you will 
write to me and tell me where she is and if she is 
comfortable, and—and—Mary, I would go to her! 
I would! I would! I could wear her old clothes 
just as well as Aunt Virgie’s, and I could wash 
dishes and dust and do lots of things to help pay 
my board where she is living. Will you do that 
for me, Mary?” 

“Of course I shall, Bab. Even before you 
asked me, I was wondering whether I might meet 
her some day. And I shall tell Father and Mother 
and Uncle Frank about her, too.” 


190 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“0 Mary! Pm so glad I told you. I thought it 
might sound queer for me to talk like this to you 
the very first time I met you; but there’s another 
reason besides Mother why I’ve told you so much. 
I want you to understand from the very beginning 
that we’re poor—plain, poverty poor; and now 
if you don’t want to play with me—” 

“Bab! The very idea! What difference does it 
make whether a person is rich or poor?” 

“Hm! It makes a whole lot of difference if you 
happen to be the poor one.” 

“Yes, as far as clothes and such things go; but 
we were talking about being friends. Why, at 
Maryvale there are over two hundred boarders, 
and Wilhelmina and I never stop to think whether 
they are rich or poor. Surely, that isn’t what a 
person ought to think of when she is making 
friends.” 

“I’m mighty glad you look at it that way, and 
that you’re not one of the stuckup kind, going 
around with your nose in the air.” 

Mary was puzzled. She could not blind herself 
to the fact that she had always had a more beau¬ 
tiful home, better clothes, more costly toys than 
many of her little companions; but why this 
should cause her to go around with her nose in 
the air was more than she could understand. It 
had rather always seemed to her a reason why she 
should share everything that could be shared with 
those who had less. So she was glad when the 


BAB 


191 


conversation was interrupted by the return of the 
twins with their boats. 

“We had the most drefful time finding Eben- 
easy, and we were so ’fraid Bab would go home 
before she saw our beauty boats. See, Bab, Beth’s 
is blue, ’cause blue is her color; and mine is red, 
’cause red is my color ev’y single time.” 

It was Bab’s turn to look puzzled. 

“Berta means that she is dedicated to the 
Sacred Heart, and Beth to our Blessed Mother. I 
shall explain what that means some other time, 
Bab. There is Mother, looking for us.” 

Bab promised to come over early in the morn¬ 
ing to help sail the boats on the duck pond, and 
went home happy in the possession of a friend to 
whom faded pinafores made no difference. And 
Mary, whose keenest sympathy had been aroused 
by her sad story, resolved to wear the plainest 
dress she had whenever she expected a visit from 
Bab. 

It was she who told a story that evening after 
the twins had been put to bed, and she had taken 
her place between her father and mother before 
the big fireplace. 

“So that is how matters stand, is it? From 
what the Doctor said, I inferred that both parents 
were dead.” 

“He probably thinks they are, Bob. The mother 
must have been a frail woman, who could scarcely 
have lived long if exposed to hardship even with- 


192 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


out the additional heart hunger for her little 
ones.” 

“I knew that Doctor Wren was a man bound 
hand and foot by old traditions; but I hardly be¬ 
lieved him capable of such heartlessness. ’ ’ 

“Father, don’t you think we could find out 
something about Bab’s mother? I know exactly 
how poor Bab must feel. It would be a relief to 
her even to be sure her mother is dead, and not 
sick and poor and cold and hungry. Her name 
was Estelle Lewis. That is why Bab chose Estelle 
for one of her names; but of course she shouldn’t 
have said it before her grandfather. It slipped 
from her before she knew it. I suppose she had 
bread and milk for her supper after that. Don’t 
you think the people at that hospital would know 
something about her mother? She would surely 
have left some address with them in case the 
Doctor might be sorry and wish to tell her to come 
back to her children. Poor Bab is so anxious, too, 
to go to school with other girls. I do wish she 
could come to Maryvale.” 

“I think I can easily arrange that, Mary. I 
have decided to give a scholarship to Maryvale 
as a little thank offering for all the favors we 
have received; and Doctor Wren cannot reason¬ 
ably object to Bab’s being the first to benefit by 
it, especially when I put it to him in this way— 
that I am paying only a little of the debt which 
I have owed him for the past twenty years. My 


BAB 


193 


mother was an invalid for a long time before her 
death, and Doctor Wren attended her most faith¬ 
fully. He became highly indignant whenever my 
father asked him for his bill; for he thought that 
the friendship which had existed for generations 
between the two families should do away with the 
idea of compensation for any service which one 
might render the other. But now is my chance to 
balance our account.’’ 

4 ‘Father! Oh, will you ask him about it before 
we go back to Bird-a-Lea T ’ 

“Yes, I shall arrange it all as soon as an oppor¬ 
tunity presents itself; but not a word to Bab until 
everything is settled. As for instituting a search 
for the mother, the next time I go to Richmond, I 
shall inquire at the hospital to see what chance of 
success there is. She may have returned to the 
North—to New York, perhaps, where so many in 
her circumstances go; and if her health continued 
poor, inquiries at the various hospitals there 
might bring results. We shall interest Uncle in 
the case.” 


CHAPTER XIX 

A DOUBLE SURPRISE 

‘ ‘ There goes the carriage around to the barn. 
Where in the world has Pompey been so early in 
the morning. If I didn’t know that the train gets 
in at six in the evening, I would think he had gone 
to meet Uncle and Aunt Handy.” As Mary 
turned to finish her breakfast, a loud, clear voice 
resounded through the hall. 

“ ‘You can’t get ’em up, 

You can’t get ’em up, 

You can’t get ’em up in the morning, 

You can’t get ’em up, 

You can’t get ’em up, 

You can’t get ’em up at all.’ ” 

Mary jumped up from the table and made for 
the door with the twins at her heels and her 
father and mother, laughing at the success of their 
surprise, not far behind. 

“But, Father, I thought there was only one 
passenger train a day stopping here,” remon¬ 
strated the little girl when the greetings were 
over. 

‘ ‘ Only one from the direction in which we came. 
You forgot that Uncle was coming from New 
York.” 

“And Aunt Mandy, Uncle? didn’t you bring her 
after all?” 

‘ ‘ Indeed I did, Goldilocks! She is in the library 
194 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


195 


looking after a little surprise I brought you. One 
moment, little folks!” For the twins had again 
started for the door. “Mary will send her to you. 
My surprise is not equal to too much excitement. ’’ 

Mary was puzzled. A surprise not equal to ex¬ 
citement! Well, she could soon satisfy her curi¬ 
osity; and down the length of the hall she sped. 
At the library door she encountered Aunt Mandy 
and gave her a welcoming hug. 

“An’ whah’s ma oddah li’l bressed lambs, honey 
chile? Ma heart’s most ate up wif lonesome fo’ 
dem.” 

“There they are, waiting for you at the dining¬ 
room door. What did Uncle bring me, Aunt 
Mandy?” But the old nurse had already started 
forward to meet the little ones, who were racing 
toward her. Mary stood in the doorway watching 
them until she heard her name called in a weak 
voice. Whirling about, she ran across the room 
to the big leather couch. “0 Florence, Florence! 
Isn’t this the loveliest surprise ever was!” And 
the two little girls clung to each other until Flor¬ 
ence fell back exhausted. Then Mary noticed the 
great change in her little friend, but thought it 
largely due to the long, tiresome journey. “You 
are simply worn out, Florence; but after a few 
days here where it is so warm and bright and 
sunny, you will be as well as ever. Oh, I’m so glad 
Uncle brought you with him. Just see how well I 
look!” 


196 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“And I thought they were taking you away to 
die, and that I would never see you again. 0 Mary! 
has anyone told you ? do you know that I am going 
to be a Catholic as soon as I learn a little more?” 

“Florence! You are! Oh, I never dreamed of 
such a thing !” 

“Neither did I until after you went away. I 
was so, so lonely, Mary. Then I remembered how 
you always felt toward our Blessed Mother when 
you thought your father and mother and the twins 
were dead; and I began to wonder whether she 
loved me, too, and I asked Mother Madeline about 
that and some other things that puzzled me; and 
when she had explained them all I saw that I 
really ought to be a Catholic. Father Hartley has 
been instructing me; and I was afraid if I came 
down here he wouldn’t baptize me at Easter as 
he has promised to do. But he said he was sure 
your mother would teach me anything else I 
should know—” 

“And she will, Florence, she will! Here she 
is now, trying her best to look surprised, when she 
has known all along that you were coming . 9 9 

Mrs. Selwyn was followed by Scip, carrying a 
dainty breakfast. 

“I shall stay with Florence, Mary, while you 
finish your breakfast. Then we must let her have 
a long sleep. I am afraid the journey has been 
too much for her.” 

“And she must have my room, Mother, because 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


197 


it is tlie oply one upstairs with long windows 
opening out on a porch. That porch over the car¬ 
riage entrance is sunny all day long, and Florence 
can sit out there in a big chair until she is rested 
and able to come downstairs.” 

Mary re-entered the dining-room just in time to 
hear her Uncle say that he must return to New 
York Sunday night. 

“And to-day is Friday. Why, Uncle! we 
thought you would stay at least two weeks, and we 
have planned all sorts of good times.” 

“I shall run down again later on, dear, when I 
hope to he able to take a longer holiday. But we 
can begin at once to carry out a few of your plans. 
Mention some of them.” 

“One is that we shall go for a long ride every 
day. Oh, you needn’t laugh, Uncle. All the horses 
are not like ‘dem frisky grays,’ that Pomp insists 
on driving. We shall have to start at midnight to 
get to the next town in time for Mass Sunday, 
unless Father can make him drive the other team; 
though perhaps they are no better than the grays. 
But there are some good saddle horses.” 

“Then let us take our first ride this morning. 
How will eleven o’clock suit you! That will give 
me time to answer most of Mother’s questions, 
and you can keep yours for our ride.” 

During the Doctor’s visit, the little girl scarcely 
left his side, for her mother would not allow her 
to spend more than a few minutes at a time with 


198 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


Florence, who was exhausted from the journey. 
After her uncle’s departure, she was much disap¬ 
pointed that the bright spring days went by with¬ 
out bringing her little friend the strength to join 
in the lively games that went on under the big, 
old trees. True, Mr. Selwyn carried Florence 
downstairs to the east end of the veranda every 
morning, where Mary or her mother read and 
talked to her; and once or twice he took her and 
Mary and Bab for a little drive, which, however, 
proved too much for her. She was “just tired,” 
and was perfectly content to lie on a wicker couch 
on the veranda, watching the children at play or 
listening to the instructions which Mrs. Selwyn 
faithfully gave her. 

But Mary could not understand why the fresh 
air and sunshine, which had done so much for her, 
did not have an equally good effect on Florence. 
However, she decided that it was merely a matter 
of time; and her father and mother, who soon real¬ 
ized that the little invalid had gone beyond the 
point where she could be benefited, thought it 
better for the time being, at least, to let Mary 
hold her own opinion on the matter. It was only 
a forlorn hope, as Doctor Carlton explained to 
Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, that had led him to bring 
Florence to Cedar Ridge. He had seen her fail¬ 
ing steadily; and all that Doctor Saunders and the 
Sisters had done for her had availed nothing. 
Never very strong, her heart had been so weak- 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


199 


ened by her long illness that it was merely a ques¬ 
tion of bow long it would bold out. Mrs. Selwyn 
sometimes wondered whether the little girl real¬ 
ized that she could not recover. She often caught 
a wistful light in the big, gray eyes—larger and 
more serious looking than ever—fixed on Mary and 
Bab playing tennis. For such times Mrs. Selwyn 
always had an unusually interesting story; or on 
some pretext or other she would call the children 
up on the veranda where she turned the conversa¬ 
tion to subjects interesting to Florence. 

At first Bab rather resented Florence’s coming. 
She had counted on having Mary very much to 
herself. But it was not long before the gentle 
little invalid won her affection; and she seldom 
came to Cedar Ridge without a great bouquet of 
violets, trailing arbutus, and dogwood blossoms, 
having risen a whole hour earlier to gather them. 
One morning a week or so after Florence’s 
arrival, Doctor Wren set out to visit a patient at 
a distance. This meant no lessons for Bab that 
day; and having put her own room in order, she 
gladly availed herself of her aunt’s permission to 
dispense with her dusting and mending and spend 
the whole day at Cedar Ridge. Down the road, 
across the little bridge, and up the steep hill she 
flew; for this had always been the short cut be¬ 
tween the two homes. She saw the twins enjoying 
themselves down at the swing, but no sign of 
Mary; and on reaching the veranda she was told 


200 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


by Mrs. Selwyn that Mary had that morning begun 
her studies with her father. Bab dropped on the 
top step to wait; and presently she found herself 
listening to every word of the instruction which 
Mrs. Selwyn was giving Florence. She was al¬ 
most disappointed when Mary soon appeared and 
proposed a game of tennis. “I knew you were out 
here, Bab, but I didn’t like to ask Father to let 
me off the very first morning. He just happened 
to look out the window and see you; and he says 
that you so seldom get a holiday that he thinks 
we ought to make use of every minute of it. So 
I had only a half hour of lessons instead of the 
hour we had planned.” 

Very often during the weeks that followed, Bab 
slipped away from Mary and her little sisters and 
returned to the veranda to rest, as she said, though 
in reality she longed to hear more on the subjects 
which Mary’s mother discussed with Florence. 
Mrs. Selwyn had no idea that Bab was paying the 
least attention to what was being said as she sat 
on the step, leaning against the big fluted column 
and smiling at the antics of the twins, until one 
day she laid her little brown hand on Mrs. Sel¬ 
wyn’s knee and asked earnestly , 1 ‘ Will you please 
say that again, Mrs. Selwyn?” Without showing 
any sign of the surprise she felt, Mrs. Selwyn 
repeated the words,“ There shall be one Fold and 
one Shepherd,” and went on instructing Florence 
as if there had been no interruption. But the little 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


201 


invalid was quick to note that she took more pains 
to make matters very, very clear and simple than 
she would have done had Bab not asked the ques¬ 
tion; for Florence had been present at so many 
instructions at Maryvale that she needed little in 
the way of explanation. Mrs. Selwyn hoped that 
this might be the beginning of better things for 
Bab; that the little girl would in time learn where 
to turn for the comfort and strength she sorely 
needed. 

The family had expected to return to Bird-a- 
Lea for Easter; but Doctor Carlton feared that 
the weather was still too unsettled and decided to 
take his promised vacation at that time. The 
shadow of disappointment in Florence’s eyes when 
she heard of this change of plans did not escape 
Mrs. Selwyn, who remembered that Father Hart¬ 
ley had promised to receive the little girl into the 
Church at Easter. She proposed writing to him 
to ask whether he would not be willing that the 
priest in the neighboring town should baptize her. 
But though the little girl made no objection to 
this plan, Mrs. Selwyn could see that she was not 
wholly satisfied. She had set her heart on being 
baptized at Maryvale, which, since her grand¬ 
mother^ death, she had looked upon as home; 
and on the night after the letter had been sent to 
Father Hartley, when Mrs. Selwyn stopped in 
Florence’s room to see that she needed nothing, 
the little girl whispered, “Please don’t think that 


202 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


I am not happy here, Aunt Elizabeth;” for so 
Mary had insisted that she call Mrs. Selwyn; “but 
—but sometimes I think that maybe God is going 
to take me away soon, and—and it would be so 
nice to be home where the chapel is; that’s all.” 

Mrs. Selwyn lay awake far into the night, plan¬ 
ning how to send the little girl “home.” The next 
morning she consulted her husband, who promptly 
agreed to her suggestion that they themselves 
take Florence to Richmond and there engage a 
nurse to look after her for the remainder of the 
journey. The child’s delight when told of this 
arrangement showed how great her longing had 
been; and on the following morning Mary kissed 
her good-bye, promising to be her godmother by 
proxy. 

Mary could scarcely wait for the return of her 
parents, who, while in Richmond, were to visit the 
hospital in which Bab’s mother had been so ill. But 
a great disappointment was in store for the little 
girl. A fire, five years before, had destroyed the 
part of the building in which the offices were 
located, and several books of records, which had 
been taken from the safe and were being used at 
the time, had been burned. The office force had 
been completely changed since that time. If Mrs. 
Wren had left any address, it must have been de¬ 
stroyed by the fire, and no mail had since come to 
the hospital for her. Even if any of the old force 
or of the nurses who had been in attendance there 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


203 


could be interviewed, they would scarcely remem¬ 
ber an address. The doctor gave it as his opinion 
that it was hardly probable that anyone so frail 
could still be alive. She had told him that she 
intended to place her children with her husband’s 
relatives and go to New York herself. 

“We shall ask Uncle Frank to make inquiries at 
the hospitals in New York, though perhaps she 
may never have been in any of them. Without 
knowing what name she chose, it will be a very 
difficult matter to trace her; but the thought oc¬ 
curred to me that if ill in a hospital she might have 
been delirious and talked of Harold and Bab. Still, 
unless that happened recently, the nurse who took 
care of her may be no longer in that particular 
hospital. It really seems a hopeless case. The 
needle in the haystack is nothing compared to it; 
for if the needle is there, a patient searcher stands 
a chance of finding it. ’ 9 

“Couldn’t you put a notice in the New York pa¬ 
pers, Father?” 

“I have thought of that, Mary; but I know that 
Doctor Wren has many friends in New York, any 
of whom might send him the newspaper clipping. 
In that case the Doctor would suspect us, and we 
should lose our opportunity of doing anything for 
Bab. After the difficulty I had in persuading him 
to accept the scholarship for her, I should not 
care to risk the child’s certain good for a mere 
possibility of locating the mother.” 


204 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“But wouldn’t it be possible, Rob, to word a 
message so that it would be understood by Mrs. 
Wren alone !” 

“Perhaps we can do that, Elizabeth. She has 
pledged herself to give up all claim to the children; 
but that should not prevent her hearing of them 
occasionally. The fact that she has made no at¬ 
tempt to do so is almost conclusive proof that she 
is dead. Don’t you think so!” 

“Unless she has some mistaken idea that she 
would be false to her promise by doing so, Rob. 
Or she may think that the Doctor would resent 
any such attempt and retaliate by being unkind 
to the children.” 

“Yes, that may be her reason for this long 
silence. Well, we shall do our best, but I have no 
hope of succeeding.” 

“But, Father, think how hopeless we felt about 
Mother. Everyone was positive that she was dead, 
and I had nothing but what Berta told me about 
seeing her and Beth go down in the little boat and 
my own feeling that she was alive somewhere to 
make me think a mistake had been made. I had 
no idea whether she was in Europe, Asia, or 
Africa, or right in the United States; but I knew 
that if I prayed hard enough, our Blessed Mother 
would help us find her. And why wouldn’t she do 
the same for Bab! The twenty-sixth of April is 
the Feast of Our Lady of Good Counsel. Let us 
make a novena; and I shall ask Aunt Mary to have 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


205 


all the Sisters and girls make it, too. Every eve¬ 
ning we shall sing that hymn to our Lady of Good 
Counsel—the one that says, ‘Mother, tell me what 
am I to do/ at the end of each verse; and then 
let us say the Rosary together and the Memorare . 
And you will see that everything will come out all 
right for Bab; and maybe she will become a 
Catholic when she sees what prayer to our 
Blessed Mother has done for her. ’ ’ 

“You are right, little daughter. Prayer will be 
of more avail than detectives; though they may 
prove useful, 100 .’’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, of course, Father. Father Hartley always 
says that we must use human means, too, because 
God expects us to do that. People who just sit 
down and wait for Him to work miracles for them 
and who won’t do a thing to help out, can’t expect 
their prayers to be heard. In Mother’s case, Uncle 
had done everything he could think of to make 
sure that she and Beth had been lost in the wreck; 
and even after he met the boy who had been in the 
lifeboat with them, he didn’t just wait until we 
got to Lourdes to pray that we would find them; 
but he put detectives on the case and visited that 
hospital at Bordeaux, where the boy said Mother 
had been taken when she was so sick; and he had 
my picture taken because I look like her, and— 
and oh, everything he could think of! There 
wasn’t anything for me to do but to pray and ask 
others to do the same—” 


206 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“How about all those penitential exercises 
which you practiced ?” Mr. Selwyn’s eyes 
twinkled, and Mary laughed heartily. 

“Did Uncle tell you about them, Father? and 
how Berta gave me away? Yes, I had heard Sister 
Austin say that if we mortify ourselves as well as 
pray, we stand a better chance of getting what we 
want; so I did without candy and dessert, and 
stayed up later than I should have done at night 
praying, and I went oftener to the chapel, and I 
think I read my prayer book, Penitential Psalms 
and all, about a thousand times, and said the Sta¬ 
tions three times a day, and I don’t remember 
what else I did before Berta told Uncle that I 
wouldn’t play with her and spent all my free time 
in the chapel. He said it was no wonder that I 
was pale and thin, and he was really provoked at 
me. But Aunt Mary fixed it all up with him, and 
I got what I wanted, anyway!” Mary seized her 
mother’s hand and kissed it passionately. 

“So you did, dear; and we shall begin to pray 
that Bab’s case will turn out as beautifully as 
ours did. I hope, though, that you have not spoken 
to her of what we are trying to do.” 

“No, indeed, Mother; but you can’t imagine how 
hard it is not to say something about it when she 
talks of her mother.” 

After Florence’s departure, Mary settled down 
in earnest to the writing of the story, which, to 
[Wilhelmina’s disappointment, she had more or less 


A DOUBLE SURPRISE 


207 


neglected. Every day after luncheon while the 
rest of the family were enjoying their siesta, she 
slipped up to the attic and filled page after page 
with an account of her little sisters ’ pranks which 
she had witnessed herself or heard of from her 
mother, the old nurse, and others. When she had 
finished a chapter, she copied it carefully and 
placed the neatly written pages between the stiff 
covers of the large note book. Then she sent the 
rough copy to Wilhelmina and waited with as much 
patience as she could command for the arrival of 
her drawings. Mrs. Selwyn sometimes came up 
to see how the story was progressing and was al¬ 
ways glad of an opportunity to laugh heartily at 
something Mary had written; for the sight of the 
serious little girl almost lost in the great, high- 
backed chair before the massive old desk strewn 
with manuscript, was decidedly amusing. 

If there was one article of furniture in the house 
which Mary loved more than another, it was that 
desk; and she often wondered how she could ever 
again accommodate herself to her own little up-to- 
date writing desk in her room at Bird-a-Lea. “It 
does very well, you know, for letters and such 

things, Mother; but for a book-well, you can 

see for yourself that I can’t keep the pages on 
even this great big desk. They are always flying 
all over the floor no matter how much I try to keep 
them in order.” 


208 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“That is just one of the little trials an author 
must put up with, dear.” 

“An author, Mother! Dear, me! I hope you 
don’t think I imagine I’m an author!” 

“But ’Coming events cast their shadows be¬ 
fore.’ And who knows to what this first attempt 
at writing and illustrating a story may lead? I 
wish you would let me tell Father about your 
book.” 

“I wouldn’t mind one bit, Mother, because I 
know he would keep the secret. But Wilhelmina 
won’t listen to such a thing. She didn’t like it 
very well because I told you.” 

“Perhaps after she has seen what a creditable 
piece of work you are both producing, she may 
change her mind about keeping it such a profound 
secret.” 


CHAPTER XX 

PHIL’S SCRAPE 

“Howdy, Mary!” 

At sound of the familiar voice, Mary dropped 
her book with a cry of glad surprise and ran down 
the steps to meet the tall boy coming up the drive¬ 
way. “Phil! where did you come from?” 

“Straight from the poky little station in your 
sleepy old village along the hottest, dustiest road 
I have ever tramped.’ 7 And Phil Marvin gave the 
two little hands outstretched to welcome him a 
hearty shake. 

“But why didn’t you let us know you were com¬ 
ing so we could meet you ?’ 9 

“I tried my level best to do just that, Mary; 
first by telephone-” 

Mary laughed. “We haven’t any, Phil. Oh, we 
are aivay behind the times down here! But 
Father has sent word to the company, and I sup¬ 
pose the men will come to put it in when we are 
packing to go North again. Cedar Ridge is not 
New York City, nor even Sunnymead or Bird-a- 
Lea, as I have good reason to know; but just the 
same, I love it.” 

“It surely is some place all right, Mary. But to 

finish answering your question-when I couldn’t 

get you on the ’phone, I sent a telegram. Here it 
is. I saw it on the desk when I asked the operator 
where I could get a rig to drive out here.” 

“What a shame!” 


209 



210 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Well, I suppose he wasn’t altogether to blame. 
He said he couldn’t find anyone to deliver it. 
There is something going on to-day in the next 
town, and the village is absolutely deserted. We 
couldn’t find a thing on wheels to bring us out 
here. ’ ’ 

“Us! Are Harry and Joe coming, too!” 

“They are if we can find some way of getting 
them here. Joe twisted his ankle yesterday and 
can hardly stand on it. So Harry stayed with him 
in the station while I came on ahead to announce 
our arrival. If you can let me have a horse and 
rig of some sort, I shall go right back for them. 
That station is hot as blazes.” 

“I know it is, Phil. We must get them out of 

it right away. But-let me think what there is 

for you to take. Father and Mother have gone in 
the carriage to spend the afternoon and take 
dinner with friends ten miles away. The older 
carriages are not safe; and just wait until you see 
the coach, Phil! If it were only fit to use, we could 
have lots of fun dressing up in the old-timey things 
up in the attic and going to meet the boys that 
way. There isn’t a thing but the big farm wagons 
and the little old phaeton which is just large 
enough for two. Oh, I know! Tobe! Come here, 
Tobe! Yes, I saw you peeping around the corner 
there. Come here a minute! ’ ’ 

The little black boy reluctantly made his ap¬ 
pearance. 


PHIL’S SCRAPE 


211 


“You sometimes drive to the village for the 
mail, don’t you, Tobe?” 

“Ah suttinly does, Miss May-ree. Ain’t Ah done 
tole yo’alls dat’s how Ah cotehed de hookin’-coffs 
dat time agwine t’ dat village an’ ’soshatin’ wif de 
poah white trash what’s ben acomin’ in dah 
lately?” 

“Well, Tobe, there’s no one in the village to-day 
for you to catch anything from; but there are some 
guests at the station, and someone must drive in 
for them. I thought you could take the phaeton 
for them and another horse for you to ride back.” 

“Whoopee, Miss May-ree! Ah kin do dat all 
right ’nuff fo’ sho’ !” 

“And how long is it going to take you to hitch 
up?” 

“Ah’s gwine dribe out’n heah in two shakes ob 
a daid keow’s tail, Miss May-ree. Jes’ yo’ watch 
dis yeah niggah! ’ ’ 

“That will be better, Phil, than to have you go 
all the way back in the hot sun. Come up on the 
porch and make yourself comfortable. I shall get 
you something cool to drink.” 

Mary soon returned with a big pitcher of lem¬ 
onade ; and when Phil had satisfied his thirst, she 
demanded, “Now, tell me what is the matter.” 

“Why, who said there is anything the matter, 
Mary?” 

“Hm! as if it isn’t written all over your face. 
Even if I couldn’t see that you are worried, 


212 


THE SELWYNS IN' DIXIE 


wouldn’t a visit from you just now be enough to 
set me guessing? The Easter holidays don’t be¬ 
gin until next week. Oh, I do hope there is nothing 
wrong at Sunnymead! No one sick or hurt, I 
mean.” 

“No, no, Mary, everything is all right there. 
But it takes yourself to see through a fellow. I 
was flattering myself that you hadn’t noticed a 
thing. You are not so easily bluffed as Willie is. ’ ’ 

‘‘ But Wilhelmina isn’t easily bluffed, Phil. She 
sees a great deal more than anyone thinks she 
does, but she doesn’t always pretend to notice.” 

“Well, don’t imagine that I am going to burden 
you with my troubles. I shall wait and talk things 
over with Uncle Bob. How soon will he be home!” 

“Not before nine or half past, Phil. The horses 
down here take their time just as every one does. 
So don’t you think you would feel better if you 
told me what the trouble is? I suppose there isn’t 
really anything I can do to help you out of it; but 
I know things never seem quite so bad after I have 
talked them over with someone. Is it something 
that must be attended to right away?” 

“No, Mary, nothing can be done about it until 
Father comes-” 

“Oh, is Uncle Phil coming? and will he bring 
Wilhelmina?” 

“Father said he would meet us here; but it isn’t 
likely that he will bring Willie with him.” The 
troubled shadows in the boy’s dark eyes deepened 


phil’s scrape 


213 


as lie gazed over the bright green fields to the hills 
beyond. For a moment he forgot the little girl in 
the big chair opposite, and hard lines appeared 
around his month. Mary watched him anxiously. 
Suddenly he remembered that he was not alone. 

“Oh, I say, Mary, you mustn’t worry about it!” 

“But I can’t help feeling anxious, Phil. It must 
be something dreadful when it makes you look as 
you did a minute ago. And you’re so far away 
from your father and mother and-” 

“How did I look!” 

“Desperate.” 

“Oh, it isn’t quite so bad as that.” The boy 
forced a smile and tried to speak lightly. “Per¬ 
haps I had better tell you all about it. You will 
hear it to-morrow anyway. I’ve been fired!” 

“Fired! You fired! Expelled from school!” 
And to Phil’s surprise, Mary leaned back in her 
chair, laughing heartily. “Well, that’s the best 
joke I’ve heard in a long time, Phil. What sort of 
school is it, I should like to know, to expel a Mar¬ 
vin ! ’ ’ Her mirth gave place to indignation. 11 Oh, 
just wait until Father hears this! The school my 
grandfather helped to found firing boys who 
couldn’t do a mean thing if they tried!” 

Phil flushed and laughingly protested. “Don’t 
be too sure of that, Mary. We all have the Marvin 
temper, you know.” 

“Hm! I haven’t seen very much of it, so you 
must manage to hold it in pretty well.” 


214 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“We have been taught to do that since we were 
babies. But we have it all right. Father is a won¬ 
derful example to us. You'will hardly believe that 
I have seen him positively white with rage—you 
may know things are pretty bad when any of us 
Indians get white—but he never opened his lips; 
just went off some place by himself until he had 
conquered his anger. An uncle of his almost killed 
a man who had enraged him; so Father has taken 
good care to impress on us the danger of giving 
way to our ‘mad’.” 

“But I can’t believe your ‘mad’ has made you 
do anything that you could be expelled for, Phil. ’ ’ 

“No, Mary, I’m thankful to say it has not—at 
least, not directly. But I shall have to go back to 
the first few days after Father left us at this won¬ 
derful school that we tormented him into letting 
us attend. We weren’t there an hour before Harry 
and I saw that we were in the wrong place; but we 
were too proud to admit it when Father came to 
say good-bye the next morning, and made up our 
minds to stick it out for the rest of the year. Well, 
we stood things as best we could until an ignorant 
chap said something about our Blessed Mother. 
I simply knocked him flat; and before I got 
through with him, he was minus two front teeth, 
and his beauty was pretty generally spoiled.” 

Instead of looking horrified, as Phil expected 
his dainty little listener to do, she clapped her 
hands enthusiastically. “Oh, that was splendid, 
Phil, splendid!” 


phil’s scrape 


215 


He stared at her in utter amazement. 

“Why, don’t yon see? You were our Lady’s 
knight. In olden times knights fought for the 
honor of the ladies they loved; and isn’t that 
exactly what you did? How I wish I had been 
there to help you! But,” examining her hands 
ruefully, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been much 
good. Do you think I shall ever be able to pound 
anyone that way, Phil?” 

“I hope you will never have to do it, Mary. It 
isn’t a pleasant job by any means, and takes more 
muscle than you are ever likely to have.” 

Mary heaved a disappointed sigh. “Dear, me! 
It must be wonderful to be so strong and fine! ’ ’ 
“Well, the president of the college didn’t seem 
to think I had done anything particularly chival¬ 
rous. He threatened to fire me if I did it again; 
but I told him respectfully, but very plainly, that 
if anyone talked in that fashion while I was 
around, I had no choice but to do it again. After 
that the chap I thrashed—and, by the way, he 
looks as much like me as Joe does—never missed 
a chance to be mean. He was afraid to come out 
in the open; but he was up to all sorts of tricks, 
and, on account of the strong resemblance between 
us, managed them so that the blame fell on me. 
And I had the dickens of a time trying to prove 
my innocence to the different professors who 
called me to time. You see, Claude’s father is one 
of the directors of the college. 


216 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Things went on from bad to worse until yes¬ 
terday afternoon. I had a ripping headache—got 
hit in the head with a baseball—and about five 
o’clock I went to my room. It was beastly hot, so 
I threw up the window and pushed a big, high- 
backed chair in front of it and sat with my back to 
the door. I didn’t go down to supper; and a few 
minutes after the bell had rung, an auto came up 
the road, and I watched it until it stopped behind 
the wall at the end of the college grounds. A 
second later, Claude, my double, ran from behind 
some shrubs and scrambled over the wall. He 
knew he was safe in doing it, because that side of 
the building is deserted while the boys are at sup¬ 
per. Then the auto went spinning back along the 
road toward town. After a little I fell asleep, and 
didn’t wake until eleven o’clock. Lights are sup¬ 
posed to be out at ten; so I went to bed by moon¬ 
light. First thing this morning, Harry asked me 
where I was last evening. The professor who 
keeps evening study hour missed me and sent him 
to look for me. I went to explain to the professor, 
but he said the president had just sent word that 
he wished to see me. Then I knew something was 
up. I went to his office and found him talking to 
a policeman. He asked the officer if I was the boy. 
The officer said I was. Then he pointed to a little 
pocket notebook and a fountain pen lying on the 
desk, and said that he presumed they were mine 
as they bore my name. I immediately claimed 


phil’s scrape 


217 


them, saying that I was glad to get them back; 
that they had been taken from my desk two or 
three days before. The two of them smiled in a 
‘know it all’ fashion, and I knew something was 
coming. The president hemmed and hawed and 
then began: ‘ This officer rightly considers the Dew 
Drop Inn no place for the yonng gentlemen of this 
college.’ I had heard that it was the lowest of the 
low down gambling holes in the town; and I tell 
you, Mary, my ‘mad’ began to come up in good 
earnest when I thought that my name was being 
connected with such a foul place. The president 
went on: ‘These articles, which you do not hesi¬ 
tate to claim, were found under the table where 
you and your boon companions sat last evening, 
regaling yourselves on stuff that no decent boy 
would touch, until you had to be literally carried 
out of the place. Any attempt on your part to 
deny these charges will be useless. You were not 
in the building last evening. Your own brother 
could not find you in your room. This officer 
recognized you as soon as you entered the room. 
No further proof is necessary to convince me of 
your guilt. Your record here has been most un¬ 
satisfactory. I have therefore decided to make an 
example of you and to expel you publicly. The 
honor of the institution must be upheld. ’ 

“Well, Mary, you can judge for yourself that I 
wasn’t exactly an icicle by that time. How I ever 
kept still, I don’t know; but from past experience 


218 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


I did know that it would be absolutely foolish for 
me to try to clear myself; so I turned on my heel 
and left the room. I went straight to the telephone 
to call Father. Fortunately, he was in the house. 
If I had had to wait for him to come in from the 
fields, I think the president would have tried to 
prevent my telling him anything; because, a few 
minutes after I had left his august presence, he 
followed me to make sure, I suppose, that I would 
not try to escape. He came along just as I began 
talking to Father. I simply said that I was about to 
be publicly expelled, that I had done absolutely 
nothing to deserve it, and asked what he wished 
Harry and Joe to do. I knew from his voice that 
he was making a desperate attempt to keep his 
‘mad’ down. All he said was, ‘ Ask the president to 
step to the ’phone. I shall speak to you again after 
I have finished with him.’ And maybe I couldn’t 
see that finish! The president wasn’t any too keen 
to take the receiver; and gee whilikins, Mary! I 
could hear every word Father said half way across 
the room. ‘If you attempt— attempt, sir, to expel a 
son of mine publicly, privately, or in any other way 
whatever, I will bring suit against you and the in¬ 
stitution over which you preside for every cent you 
and it are worth; and I will see to it that you are 
exposed before the public in your true colors.’ You 
see, Mary, Father had heard things from others 
and had some idea of what we had been going 
through; but he wouldn’t pretend anything to us 


phil’s scrape 


219 


when lie wrote. We had teased and teased to go 
to that school, and he was going to let us do our 
own asking about leaving it. But about his talk 
with the president. I heard him say, 'I shall call 
on you in person before the end of the week. 
Meanwhile, let there be no obstacle placed in the 
way of my son’s carrying out my instructions con¬ 
cerning himself and his brothers, which I shall 
now give him. ’ The president didn’t have a chance 
to open his mouth. When he tried to explain, 
Father insisted on speaking to me again. He told 
me that he couldn’t leave home until to-morrow; 
but for us to come here at once. I tell you what, 
Mary, it’s pretty tough on a fellow when he tries 
to do the square thing by everybody and then gets 
knocked into a hole like this. Father won’t be 
able to change that man one bit. Oh, yes, he may 
save me from being publicly expelled; but the 
news that I was really fired will spread in spite of 
all the law suits in creation. And think what it 
will mean for the rest of the boys! No matter 
where they go to school, they will bump up against 
someone contemptible enough to fling at them, 

1 Marvin? Oh, yes, your brother was expelled 
from college for making a beast of himself in a 
gambling den.’ A nice reputation, isn’t it, for the 
eldest son of the family!” The boy leaned for¬ 
ward, hisi elbows on his knees, his face in his 
hands. 


220 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


“Well, Phil, I’m ashamed of you! Where is 
your faith ?” 

“Faith, Mary? what has faith to do with it?” 
His puzzled gaze met Mary’s reproving eyes. 
“Oh, you mean faith in Father?” 

“No, I don’t, Phil.” 

“You surely don’t mean faith in that bunch 
who are running that school! Ye gods! A fellow 
would be an idiot to place any faith in them! 
Imagine! Just because Claude’s father is on the 
board of directors, his son’s antics are winked at, 
and he is allowed to go his own way to ruination. 
Nixie! Don’t ask me to place any faith in such 
people, Mary.” 

“I couldn’t ask you even to try to do such a 
thing, Phil. But you are certainly forgetting the 
very one you ought to have most faith in next to 
God Himself. Here you are in a terrible scrape 
because you took our Blessed Mother’s part—yes, 
that was the beginning of all the trouble, Phil— 
and do you think for one instant that she isn’t 
going to get you out of it? Why, you know our 
Lord can’t refuse her anything. Uncle Phil will 
certainly do all he can, you may be sure; and as 
for that Claude’s father being on the board of 
directors—well, I guess the son of one of the 
founders of that college ought to have as much to 
say as a director. Yes, my grandfather helped to 
found it; and perhaps someone higher up than 
Phil Marvin will be fired when Father makes a 


phil’s scrape 


221 


speech, at the next meeting of the board. But our 
Blessed Mother will be back of it all—why, I do 
believe it was through her that you came here so 
that Father can go with Uncle Phil to that old 
college and tell that president what he thinks of 
him. Oh, you will be surprised to see how every¬ 
thing will turn out! ’ 9 

The boy gazed at the flushed little face opposite 
him. “You’re right as usual, Mary, and you have 
no idea of the load you have lifted off my mind. 
Hello, there!” For the twins had just come out 
on the porch. 

“Oh! Oh! It’s Phil! Goody, goody, good-ee!” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“i TOLD YOU SO.” 

When the greetings were over, PhU inquired, 
4 ‘But what has become of ‘does you’ and ‘we 
has’V 9 

“Oh, Beth and I thinked—I mean thought we 
must ’prove our seifs and stop talking baby way 
same as we did a long, long time ago when we 
went to your house.” And the twins gave an 
animated account of the private lessons in the 
arbor at Sunnymead. Before they had finished, 
Harry and Joe drove up, and it was a difficult 
matter to assure the little ones that Wilhelmina 
and the rest of the family were not expected and 
to persuade them to go in to dinner. Immediately 
after that meal, Aunt Mandy took Joe in hand and 
bathed and bandaged the injured ankle with such 
good results that the boy thought himself quite 
equal to joining his brothers the following morn¬ 
ing when Mr. Selwyn offered to show them over 
the place. But Mrs. Selwyn urged him to rest his 
foot for another day. Then Berta thought of a 
plan. 

“Mother, I know the very ’zact thing! The 
cute little tricycle in the attic! Joe can ride in it, 
and Beth and I can pull him ev’y place he likes 
to go.” 


222 


I TOLD YOU SO 


223 


11 


>> 


‘‘Oh, I say, Berta, isn’t there a baby carriage 
up there?” 

“N—no, Joe, I never did see nenny baby car¬ 
riage up there, not ever, ever at all. Did you, 
Beth?” 

4 ‘Not ever, ever at all, Berta; but they’s a 
cradle.” 

The boys shouted. 

“Thanks just the same, Beth; but I think I shall 
stay here on the porch and read—unless you and 
Berta will keep me company.” 

“In course we will, Joe.” And the two enter¬ 
tained the boy until the others returned. 

The following morning Mr. Marvin arrived; 
and after hearing Phil’s story, he and Mr. Selwyn 
set out with the boy for the college. Two days 
later Mary received the following letter: 

Dear Mary, 

Uncle Rob expects to go to Richmond, where he 
will be detained for two or three days; and as I 
think you ought to know at once how everything 
has turned out here, I am going to tell you. 

You should have been here for the finish; though 
I have an idea that we haven’t seen the end of 
things yet—that is, as far as the faculty of the 
college are concerned. But to begin at the be¬ 
ginning, as I know you want me to do. We ar¬ 
rived last evening, and Father and Uncle Rob 
took a stroll about town. They thought it better 


224 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


for me not to go with them as I might run across 
someone from the college; but I had my suspicions 
that they wished to see what sort of place I was 
accused of patronizing, and I was not mistaken. 
They came back to the hotel simply raging. This 
morning Father and I took a taxi out to the school. 
Uncle Eob said he would be along later. The presi¬ 
dent was not overjoyed to see us. Father listened 
very sweetly while he insisted that he had pursued 
the only course open to him; that one in his posi¬ 
tion is bound to see that the honor of the institu¬ 
tion is upheld. And right there Father demanded, 
44 By whom? by a low down sneak and thief, who 
would steal articles bearing the name of the inno¬ 
cent and conveniently lose them so as to throw the 
blame on him? by an unjust staff, who will not 
dare inquire into the truth for fear of having to 
punish the real culprit? You know, and every 
professor here knows that there is a boy here who 
could not resemble my son more if he were his 
brother; that his record is scandalous; that my 
son has been blamed time and again for his mis¬ 
demeanors. I am not saying that he is guilty of 
the charges you have brought against my son in 
this present instance; but I ask you where he was 
from supper and study that evening? was anyone 
sent to his room after him? was he in the build¬ 
ing?” 

Just then a taxi drove up, and Father told me 


I TOLD YOXJ SO 


225 


a 


>> 


to go into the next room where I wouldn’t be seen; 
but he didn’t tell me I was not to see; and I saw 
Uncle Eob enter the office, followed by my officer 
friend. You should have seen the president’s face 
when Uncle Eob was introduced. Father laid it 
on thick. “Mr. Eobert Selwyn, son of the late 
Colonel Eobert Selwyn of Cedar Eidge.” The 
president recognized him all right. Then, without 
mentioning his name, Father asked to have the 
other chap brought in. The president objected; 
but Father declared that he would go through the 
school himself and find him; and the officer, who 
really didn’t know exactly what he had been 
brought there for, backed him up. Say, Mary, I 
honestly felt sorry for Claude when he walked 
into that room and saw who were there. He had 
thought himself safe since I had been blamed and 
had taken myself off without any fuss; and he had 
no idea until he saw the policeman why he had 
been sent for. From the minute he caught sight 
of the officer, his face was a dead giveaway. 
Father asked the officer, “Do you still say that 
this is the boy, etc., etc.?” And the policeman 
insisted that Claude was the boy. Then, without 
saying my name, Father called me in, and the 
officer was almost stunned. He simply couldn’t 
for the life of him tell which was the guilty one. 
At last he remembered that the boy he had helped 
to carry out to the auto had a scar near the 


226 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


temple. That settled matters, for my beauty is 
marred by no such scar. • Claude saw that the 
game was up; but the president began do try to 
shield him. Then Uncle Bob very quietly assured 
him that he was already guilty enough of frus¬ 
trating the intentions of your grandfather and 
those others who founded the college and who be¬ 
lieved in fair play for all regardless of rank, 
wealth, or station, and that he would do well to 
see that absolute justice was done in this case at 
least. 

Then Father made the president assemble the 
whole school—faculty, pupils, servants and all— 
and he cleared the name of Marvin of all the 
charges which had been brought against it in the 
person of your humble servant. Claude had to 
admit everything before them all, and the presi¬ 
dent couldn’t do anything else but expel him pub¬ 
licly. 

Time to say, “I told you so!” and I am per¬ 
fectly willing that you say it and rub it in well 
every time we meet from henceforth, now, and 
forevermore. We leave for Bichmond early in 
the morning. Father is writing to Harry and Joe 
to tell them where to meet us there. I hope they 
have been good little boys. After Easter we are 
going back to the good old college we should never 
have left. I have done my last coaxing for any¬ 
thing Father does not see fit to let us have or do. 


I TOLD YOU SO 


227 


(( 


yy 


Remember me to Aunt Elizabeth and the 
twinnies. 

Always your obejent servant, 

Philip W. Marvin. 

P. S.—I shall wear blue and white neckties for 
a year.—P. W. M. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

EBENEZER *S. PERIL 

Mary and Bab drove slowly up from the valley. 
It was a warm afternoon in Easter week, and the 
two little girls were glad when they turned in on 
the private road to Cedar Ridge. Mary had just 
finished telling Bab about Phil’s scrape. 

“They are the nicest boys I ever met, Mary. 
I wish the Marvins lived near here so Howard 
could go with them all the time. His friends are 
just horrid. They always treat me like a baby. 
Pm more anxious than ever to know Wilhelmina. 
Don’t you think you could have her come here for 
a few days before you go away? She has to come 
as far as Richmond to meet you, anyway. ’ ’ 

“I did my best to coax Uncle Phil to let her 
come, Bab; but he thinks she is already too far 
behind the class to break in again on her studies. 
I am even farther behind than she is, though 
Father has helped me nearly every day for some 
weeks. But he doesn’t want me to spend very 
much time now studying, and says that he will 
arrange for me to take private lessons at the con¬ 
vent when we go back. By keeping them up for 
two or three weeks after school closes, he thinks I 
shall be able to go on with the class next year.” 

“And to think that I am to go to Maryville in 
September! Your father said that perhaps I can 
meet Wilhelmina at Richmond and travel the rest 
228 


ebenezer's peril 


229 


of the way with her and whoever takes her back to 
school. That would save Aunt Virgie the long, 
expensive trip, though I would love to have her go 
all the way to see Maryvale. Poor Aunt Virgie! 
She’s so happy over it all, though she says she will 
miss me dreadfully. And I just know she will 
work her fingers off to get me ready.” 

“But you don’t need much in the way of clothes, 
Bab. The scholarship includes uniforms, school 
books, and all such things; and that white dress 
you wore Sunday will do nicely for entertain¬ 
ments. ’ ’ 

“Mary! there’s the most beautiful, white silk 
poplin in that trunk in the attic. If Aunt Virgie 
would only make it over for me, the girls would 
think I am a princess.” 

“But you wouldn’t be allowed to wear it at 
Maryvale, Bab. The girls have to wear white 
wash dresses, even for graduation. You see, the 
Sisters don’t want anyone who can’t afford expen¬ 
sive clothes to feel bad if she isn’t as well dressed 
as others are. That’s why they insist on all the 
uniforms being made at Maryvale. In that way 
they are sure of having the same shade of blue, 
same material, and all.” 

“That’s good! And to think that my wish is 
really coming true! Howard can’t get over it. 
He doesn’t believe that a girl needs to know any¬ 
thing except cooking and sewing and such things. 
Oh, I pity his wife if he ever gets one! I’m going 


230 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


to work my head off in arithmetic even though I 
do hate it. ” 

“Yes, we shall have ever so much more fun if 
we are all in the same class. You are away ahead 
of us in history and geography, so you can drop 
those for awhile.’’ 

“And at Maryville I’m going to study hard and 
have such good reports to send home that Grandpa 
will just have to be proud of me even though he 
doesn’t love me. Howard’s reports are simply 
awful. I know I’m terrible to talk this way about 
my own brother; but after meeting those Marvin 
boys and seeing how nice they are to each other 
and so respectful to their father, and then when I 
think how Howard acts toward Grandpa and Aunt 
Virgie when they’re almost starving themselves 
trying to make a gentleman of him, I just boil! 
Mary! look at that poor old darkey! What ails 
him!” 

They had just turned the bend in the drive and 
caught sight of Ebenezer some distance ahead. He 
was stumbling along toward the gates as fast as 
his age and feebleness would permit. At sound of 
the horse’s hoofs, he tried to run, but fell heavily 
to the ground. 

“Wait, Ebenezer, wait! We’ll help you!” Mary 
whipped up the horse, and presently the two girls 
were at the old man’s side trying to help him to 
his feet. 

“ ’Tain’t no use, nohow, Miss May-ree, ’tain’t 


ebenezer ’s peril 


231 


no use! Mont as well let dem cotch me heah as 
anywhahs else. Dey’s gwine git me fo’ sho’, no¬ 
how !’ ’ He sank on his knees, wringing his hands 
and moaning piteously. 

Mary was frightened. She thought the poor 
old man had suddenly lost his mind and wondered 
what she should do. 

“De good Lawd knows Ah’s alwuz tried to lib 
lak a ’spectable niggah, nebah doin’ nobuddy no 
hahm. An’ Ah sho’ly ’spected to die in ma bed 
lak a good Chris ’un, ’stead ob hangin’ by ma neck 
twell Ah’s daid!” 

Bab’s eyes grew big with horror. “I’m going 
home, Mary I I’m going home! ’ ’ And in spite of 
Mary’s imploring, “0 Bab, Bab! don’t leave me! 
Please help me to get him up to the house, or go 
ask Uncle to come down here!” she was oft 
through the gates and across the lawn toward the 
hill sloping to the little bridge over the stream. 

“De Doctah ain’t up to de house, Miss May-ree. 
Jes’ as Ah wah sottin’ out fo’ de village, a fellah 
kem fo’ him to go to de cross-roads whah he done 
say somebuddy’s dyin’ fo’ sho\ He done say de 
doctah in de village am away, an’ Doctah Wren 
am gone fo’ de day, too.” And Ebenezer began 
again to moan and wring his horny old hands. 
Mary knew that his last statement was true; but 
her heart sank at thought of the cross-roads. She 
had heard Doctor Wren declare that he would 
never go there alone or unarmed. But Ebenezer’s 


232 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


next remark relieved her anxiety in some measure. 

“I done tole yo’ uncle ’bout de bad lot libbin’ 
round dat cross-roads, an” Vised him to tek his 
gun dong wif him. Scip’s done gone wif him, 
too.” 

< ‘ Oh, I am so glad you warned Uncle, Ebenezer. ’’ 
Mary summoned up courage to lay her hand on 
his shoulder. ‘ 4 Come, let me help you into the 
phaeton. This hot sun will make you sick. Where 
is your hat?” 

The darkey felt his grizzled head. ( ‘Doan’ 
know’m, Miss May-ree, honey, doan’ know’m. 
Beckon Ah los’ him down yondah. Doan’ mak no 
diffunce, nohow. Dis poah ole niggah ain’t gwine 
need no hat no moah. O Lawd hab marcy on dis 
poah sinnah an’ save him fum de poah white trash 
what’s aftah him!” 

i ‘ Ebenezer, what is the matter ? There is no one 
after you. Father won’t let anyone hurt you- 9 9 

“No’m, Miss May-ree, no’m, he wouldn’t ef’n 
he wah home. But dem debbils knows he am away 
fo’ de aftahnoon, an’ yo’ ma an’ yo’ uncle. Dey 
knows dey ain’t nobuddy heahabouts ’ceptin’ 
Mistah Clyde, an’ he doan’ cahe what folkses does 
to us niggahs.” 

But Mary knew that even Mr. Clyde was not on 
the premises. He had passed her and Bab on the 
road beyond the bridge. However, she did not 
mention this fact. “But what does anyone want 
you for anyway, Ebenezer?” 


ebenezer' s peril 


233 


44 Dey says Ah done killed a white man in de 
woods de oddah side ob de road yesti’day 
mawnin’; an’ yo 9 knows whah I wah yesti’day 
mawnin’, Miss May-ree! Yo 9 knows I wah back 
in onah own woods wif yo’ an’ de lid missies git- 
tin ’ wild flowahs.” 

“Of course I do, Ebenezer; and I shall tell 
everyone so.” 

“ ’Tain’t no good, Miss May-ree! Dey ain’t 
gwine t’ listen V yo’, honey. Dey’s acomin’ wif 
a rope to hang dis poah ole niggah by de neck 
twell he’s daid!” A long wail broke from the old 
man. 4 4 Oh Lawd hab marcy on dis poah ole sin- 
nah, oh! oh! oh!” 

The thought of the danger which Mary now 
understood was threatening Ebenezer almost 
paralyzed her. She looked wildly about for some¬ 
one to help her, but the place seemed strangely 
deserted. She must do something to save the old 
darkey from these violent men. But what? 44 Get 
up, Ebenezer, get up! Be quick! They’re not 
going to catch you! They’re not, they’re not! I 
won’t let them. Get into the phaeton!” 

Something in Mary’s voice gave Ebenezer a 
faint hope that there might still be a means of 
escape. He scrambled to his feet and with her 
help climbed into the phaeton. The little girl, 
knowing that there was not a moment to lose, used 
the whip unsparingly on poor Daisy and drove 
headlong over the lawn toward the house. Her 


234 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


one object was to get Ebenezer into it. Perhaps 
by bolting and barring doors and windows she 
might delay the mob until the police Gould arrive 
from the next town; for she knew that the sole 
guardian of the law in the little village would not 
be able to cope with a crowd of desperate ruffians. 
How thankful she was that the telephone had at 
last been installed! 

“Pray, Ebenezer, pray that we shall have time 
to do everything before they come. Say the Our 
Father—The Lord’s Prayer , you know.” And 
while her companion mumbled away, Mary, 
gravely fearing that her plan would not be a suc¬ 
cess, urged the horse to greater speed while her 
frightened little heart sent up a cry to her whose 
intercession has never been sought in vain. 
“Mother, tell me, what am I to do?” 

Like a flash the answer came just as they 
reached the front steps. Mary could have shouted 
with relief. Ebenezer was surprised at the joyful 
ring in her voice. ‘ ‘ Oh, I know, I know, Ebenezer! ’ 9 

“Yas’m, Miss May-ree, yas’m! Co’se yo’ does, 
honey! An’ Ah’s gwine do persackly what yo’ 
tells me, I suttinly is!” 

Helping him up the steps and into the hall, she 
hurried him along to the stairs, which he mounted 
with more alacrity than she had expected, all the 
while giving her a garbled account of the events 
of the past half hour. He had set out to walk to 
the village for some paint which he needed to 


ebenezer’s peril 


235 


decorate a little wagon lie was making for tlie 
twins. Before lie reached the main road, he had 
met Tobe, who breathlessly told him that a mob of 
“poah white trash,” who had recently invaded the 
peaceful little village, was on its way to lynch him 
for the murder of the white man found dead in the 
woods. A knife which one Ely Norwood swore he 
had seen in Ebenezer’s belt, had been found near 
the body. 

Mary shuddered at the thought of having to 
meet these lawless fellows. She paused a moment 
at the window of the guest room opening on the 
attic stairs, from which she could see as far as the 
gates. To her relief, no one was yet in sight. 
Nevertheless, she bolted the door of the room as 
well as the one at the head of the stairs. Before 
opening the trapdoor, she paused again. 

“Now, Ebenezer, you must promise that you 
will never, never tell where I am going to hide 
you. ’ 9 

“Nebah, Miss May-ree! Ah sweahs befoah 
Gawd dat Ah won’t nebah tell!” 

“Because, you see, someone else may have to 
hide in the same place some day. Everyone will 

ask you where you were-” 

“Yas’m, Miss May-ree, yas’m, but Ah’s gwine 

tell dem Ah wah hidin’ in de woods-” 

“No, no, that wouldn’t be true. Tell them-” 

“Ah’s gwine tell dem Ah doan’ persackly 
’membah whah Ah wah, ’kase Ah doan’, Miss 




236 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


May-ree, Ah doan’ fo’ eho’. Ah nebah wah one 
ob de house niggahs, yo’ knows. Ah wah alwuz 
moah fo’ de bosses an’ sech lak.” 

4 ‘You had better tell them they will have to ask 
Father. ’ ’ 

“Dat’s persackly what Ah’s gwine do, Miss 
May-ree.” 

The little girl turned the screw in the hinge, and 
Ebenezer’s eyes almost bulged from their sockets 
when he saw the floor before him opening up. 

“Laws a massy! Won’t all dem niggahs open 
dey eyes when Ah tells dem ’bout dis yeah!” 

“Ebenezer!” There was a sob in Mary’s voice. 

‘ ‘ What did you just promise ? ’ ’ Oh, had she made 
a dreadful mistake in disclosing the secret to him? 
But no, no! His life was in danger; and even if 
he afterward spread broadcast the secret so 
jealously guarded by the family for generations, 
she felt that the saving of the life of even this old 
darkey was well worth the price. 

‘ ‘ Oh, am dis what Ah dussent tell nobuddy, Miss 
May-ree?” 

“Yes, yes! Don’t tell that I even brought you 
to the attic.” 

“Yas’m, Miss May-ree, yas’m. Ah sweahs Ah 
ain’t gwine tell nobuddy nuffln at all.” 

“How, catch hold of this rope, Ebenezer, and let 
yourself down; and when the trapdoor is closed, 
slip the bolts that you will find over your head at 
the right. Then go straight along toward the little 


ebenezer' s peril 


237 


slits of light at the end of the room, and don’t open 
the bolts for anything. Do you hear me, Eben- 
ezerf Not for anything! When those awful men 
go away, I shall come back and click the catch this 
way, five times. Then you must open the bolts, 
and I shall help you out . 9 9 

“De good Lawd lub yo’, Miss May-ree, an’ bress 
yo* an* perteck yo’ an* yohn, an’-” 

11 Hurry, Ebenezer, hurry! I must run down to 
telephone for the police.” 

At last the trapdoor was securely fastened, and 
Mary ran to the window. Her heart sank at sight 
of the disorderly crowd just entering the gates. 
Down she flew to the telephone where she ex¬ 
plained matters as best she could. “Come in an 
auto! Father will pay for it! Only come as fast 
as you can! Ever so many of you! ’’ 

Her throat was parched, and the pounding in 
her ears almost deafened her. She ran into the 
dining-room for a drink of water. What should 
she do next? where was everyone? why was the 
place so deserted? Oh, if Scip were only dozing in 
his accustomed place by the big chimney! Faith¬ 
ful old Scip who had outwitted the shrewd Yan¬ 
kees in the old days! But on second thought she 
was glad he was not there and that the house and 
grounds were deserted; for she feared that, when 
they could not find Ebenezer, the vengeance of the 
mob would fall on some other poor old darkey. 
Then she thought of Hercules, good old Hercules, 


238 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


who would protect her from this rough crowd even 
as he had saved her from-the ugly tramp on a 
former occasion. But Hercules was* hundreds of 
miles away, and the mob was every moment draw¬ 
ing nearer. She must tell Aunt Mandy, who was 
dozing over her knitting while the twins slept. 
There might still be time for her to take them over 
to Doctor Wren’s. But in her heart, Mary knew 
that the old nurse would refuse to leave her. How¬ 
ever, she must try to persuade her to go. It would 
be too terrible to have her little sisters frightened 
by these bad men. She ran down the hall; but 
before she reached the staircase, the leaders of 
the mob were at the front door, which she had not 
taken time to close. 

“Here, you kid! You’re the very one we want!” 
Three of the crowd entered the hall and strode 
toward her. “Where’s that old nigger you 
brought in here a while ago? No use saying you 
didn’t. We’ve had men posted for an hour or 
more to watch, and they saw you drive up to the 
steps and hustle him into the house. So tell us 
where he is and be quick about it. We don’t want 
to hurt you or do any damage to the place. All 
we’re after is that nigger, Ebenezer, who killed 
Bill Jeffers in the woods yesterday.” 

Mary gulped hard. ‘ ‘ What time yesterday ? ’ ’ 

“Between ten and eleven o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing.” 

Mary threw back her head with a triumphant 


ebenezer’s peril 


239 


little laugh. “If you think Ebenezer did that, I 
can tell you that you are making a dreadful mis¬ 
take ; because he was with us children back in our 
own woods where we went for wild flowers at nine 
o’clock and stayed until twelve.’’ 

“That’s a lie, and you know it!” 

Mary shrank back, and the spokesman for the 
three advanced. 

“Miss May-ree! Miss May-ree, honey! What’s 
de mattah daown dah?” Aunt Mandy’s quaver¬ 
ing voice sounded at the head of the stairs. 

“Don’t come down, Aunt Mandy. Stay with 
the twins. It’s just someone looking for Eben¬ 
ezer. ’ ’ 

“Why fo’ dey lookin’ fo’ dat old niggah in de 
house, Miss May-ree? He nebah comes in heah.” 

“So you’ve got even the old mammy posted, 
have you? But it’s no use, young lady. We’re 
after that nigger, and we’re going to get him. It’s 
time to make an example of someone. ’ ’ 

“Then find the real murderer!” Mary’s voice 
rang out indignantly through the long hall. “I 
am speaking the truth when I tell you that Eben¬ 
ezer was with us in our own woods back of the 
house all yesterday morning. If you had kept 
your eyes open, you would have seen us there 
yourself right down at the bank of the stream 
when you passed along on the other side.” The 
start which the man could not wholly control was 
not lost on Mary. It gave her fresh courage. “I 


240 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


know yon, Ely Norwood! When Ebenezer saw 
you coming, lie pulled us back behind some bushes 
and told us your name and said you were making 
trouble in the village. And I remember perfectly 
that I looked at my watch to see if it was time to 
eat the cookies we had taken with us, and it was 
exactly ten o’cloclc! So, you see, Ebenezer couldn’t 
have been away down in the woods across the road 
from Doctor Wren’s.” 

‘ 4 Lies! lies! nothing but lies!” Norwood’s face 
was distorted by an ugly sneer. “I thought you 
Catholics didn’t believe in lying.” 

“We don’t.” 

“Well, you’re telling lies now faster than a 
horse can trot. Here, fellows, we ’re only wasting 
time. Search the house! He’s in it all right 
enough, or our men would have seen him leave it. 
Come here, you kid! None of that!” For Mary 
had started upstairs to explain matters to Aunt 
Mandy. 

“I am going to tell the nurse to wake my little 
sisters and take them some place out on the 
grounds before you frighten them to death. ’ ’ 

“You’re going to stay right down here until we 
are ready to go upstairs. See!” 

Fearing to anger the man still more, Mary 
obeyed. She had not long to wait until the three 
were satisfied that Ebenezer was not on the first 
floor nor in the basement. At the head of the 
stairs they were met by Aunt Mandy. 


ebenezer’s peril 


241 


“Miss May-ree! What would yo’ pa an’ ma 
say ef’n dey knowed yo’ wuz tekin’ strangehs fru 
de house disaway!” 

“I am not taking them, Aunt Mandy. They are 
going in spite of me.’ 9 

“Den yo’ ain’t g*wine anuddah step wif dem! 
Come ’long in heah wif me! Yo’ ain’t got no call 
fo’ t’ be ’soshatin’ wif sech poah white trash, 
nohow, what comes heah rampagin’ fru de house 
ob de most ’spectable fambly in Figinny!” 

“Get out of the way and shut up, old woman! 
We’re not here to hurt any member of this highly 
respectable family. Tell us where that old nigger, 
Ebenezer, is, and we’ll get out at once.” 

“Ain’t Miss May-ree done tol’ yo’ dat he ain’t 
in dis yeah house! ain’t dat ’nuff fo’ yo’ alls!” 

“No, she hasn’t told us so, because she knows 
it’s no use. She was seen bringing him in here 
less than a half hour ago.” 

“Den go ’long an’find him! No, sah! Yo’doan’ 
git in heah whah ma li’l bressed lambs am sound 
asleep!” And thrusting Mary before her into the 
twins’ room, she banged the door in Norwood’s 
face and bolted it. 

The three men were now sure that the object of 
their search was concealed in that room; and 
shaking and thumping the door, they threatened 
to break it in if it was not immediately opened. 
The twins, roused by the noise and frightened by 
the loud, rough voices, added their cries to the 


242 


THE SELWYE'S IN DIXIE 


confusion. Mary tried in vain to quiet them, as¬ 
suring them that no one would hurt them; that it 
was Ebenezer they wanted. This only made mat¬ 
ters worse; for Berta’s scream, “They can’t have 
my Ebeneasy, they can’t have him, I say!” con¬ 
firmed the men in their suspicion that he was in 
that very room. 

“We shall have to let those men see that he is 
not in here, Aunt Mandy. Let us take the twinnies 
to my room and dress them while they are search¬ 
ing this one.” Mary went to the door. “If you 
will stop your noise, I shall open the door. You 
must let us take my little sisters across the hall to 
another room. They are nearly frightened to 
death.” 

1 ‘ Then be quick about it! ” 

The three stood aside while the little ones were 
hurried to Mary’s room. 

“Am dey sayin’ trufe, Miss May-ree? has yo’ 
done fotched dat ole niggah into de house?” 

Mary nodded. 

“But why fo’ yo’ do dat, honey chile?” 

“I had to, Aunt Mandy. There was nothing 
else to do—no other safe place to hide him.” 

“But why fo’ yo’ has to hide him, ma bressed 
lamb? why fo’ dem low down white trash want 
him, nohow, I lak to know?” 

Mary hurriedly whispered the story, adding, 
“But they will never find him, Aunt Mandy, they 
will never find him!” 


ebenezer's peril 


243 


The old nursed heart almost ceased to beat. If 
they did not find Ebenezer, to what extremes might 
they not resort in order to force Mary to reveal 
his hiding place ? and what could she, a feeble old 
woman of a race hateful to that class of people, 
do to protect this frail child? Mary saw the 
anxiety written in every line of the faithful old 
face. 

“Honey chile, honey chile, why fo’ didn’t yo’ 
hide yo’ own self ’long wif dat ole niggah so’s 
dey cudn’t find yo, neidah?” 

“And leave you to face those awful men? But 
they’re not going to hurt any of us, Aunt Mandy. 
When they can’t find Ebenezer, they will go away. 
That’s all.” But even as she uttered the reassur¬ 
ing words, she wondered whether they were really 
so; and the old nurse, knowing that would not be 
all, put her trembling arms about the little girl and 
led her into the hall as the men declared their 
intention of searching her room. 

“Yo’ tek de babies an’ kite ’long obah to Doctah 
Wren’s, honey chile, quick as yo’ kin!” 

“Not without you, Aunt Mandy. Besides, he 
isn’t home, and they would only follow us and 
maybe do some damage to his property.” 

The men saw them whispering together, and 
when two of them went up to the attic to continue 
their search, the third was left to keep an eye on 
the old nurse and the children. A glance through 
the open doors of the bedrooms showed the little 


244 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


girl how thoroughly they had been searched. The 
contents of wardrobes and linen chests were 
strewn about the floor, and bed clothes, mattresses 
and pillows piled on top of them. 

“Pray, Aunt Mandy, pray that the police will 
soon come. I telephoned for them, you know.” 

The nurse’s troubled eyes lit up with hope, and 
she began planning how she might delay the crisis 
she so justly feared. She soon heard the two re¬ 
turning from their fruitless search of the attic. 
Their rage at being baffled found vent in such 
language as she had never before heard, and she 
tried to draw Mary and the little ones into a room 
and close the door. But Mary ran down the stairs, 
calling, “Come, Aunt Mandy, bring the twins 
down on the porch, and I shall tell the other men 
what I have already told these. Perhaps they will 
believe me. Anyway, they can’t say the twins have 
made up anything.” 

“No, Miss May-ree, no, no! Doan’ yo’ be fo’ 
gwine down dah wif dese li’l bressed lambs. Doan’ 
yo’, honey chile!” Aunt Mandy felt that what¬ 
ever she might be able to do to prevent three men 
from harming her darling, she would be utterly 
powerless against the mob stamping about im¬ 
patiently on the lawn in front of the house. But 
Mary was already half way down the stairs; and 
the nurse had no choice but to follow with Berta 
and Beth. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


MARY FACES THE MOB 

The crowd stood expectant as the little girl, 
closely followed by Aunt Mandy and the twins, 
appeared on the veranda; but when on their heels 
came the three men without their victim, a sullen 
murmur arose. It died away, however, as Mary 
began to speak. She repeated what she had told 
Norwood and his companions, adding, 4 ‘And my 
little sisters will tell you the same thing.’’ 

“Yes, now that you have coached them to do 
it,” sneered Norwood. 

Mary’s indignation overcame her fear. “TWin¬ 
nies, have I said one word to you this afternoon 
about where we were or what we did yesterday 
morning!” 

Berta’s candid gaze sought her sister’s eyes. 
“No, Mary, not ever, ever at all.” 

“Not ever, ever at all, Mary,” seconded Beth. 

“Tell these men what we were doing in the 
woods.” 

“Oh, we had the most ’lightful time picking the 
beauty little wild flowers. Ebeneasy knows ’zactly 
where to find the prettiest ones. And we saw you 
walking along as fast as fast.” Berta turned to 
Norwood with a winning smile. “But Ebeneasy 

wouldn’t let us talk to you-” She shrank back 

against Mary, frightened by Norwood’s ugly 
scowl. 


245 


246 


THE SELWYNS IH DIXIE 


“You infernal little liar! How dare you make 
up suck a tale! I was at home all yesterday morn¬ 
ing, as my wife can testify/’ 

But Berta doggedly held her own. “Why—why 
it looked jes’ ’zactly like you—your whiskers and 
your coat and that big hat, and you had a great, 

great big knife sticking out-” 

“Hush, Berta, don't say any more, dear.” Mary 
saw that Norwood's anger was fast getting the 
better of him. Again a murmur ran through the 
crowd on the lawn, but this time it seemed to her 
to have a different meaning. One of Norwood's 
companions spoke up. “Look here, Norwood, we 
came here to hang a worthless nigger that you 
swore killed Bill Jeffers; not to bully a harmless 
old woman and three helpless kids. I'll have no 
hand in it if that's your game.” 

“Nor I!” And the third man strode down off 
the porch after him. 

Norwood saw that his influence was waning; and 
drawing a long knife from beneath his coat, he 
held it up before the group on the lawn. 

“There 'tis, Mary, there-” 

Mary covered Berta's mouth with her hand, and 
Norwood began to speak. “There’s the knife that 
was found a few feet from Bill’s dead body. I’ve 
seen that knife in this Ebenezer’s possession. His 
initials are on the handle. Look at them—E. N. 
What more do you need to prove that he murdered 
Bill? This kid knows where the nigger is, and 



MARY FACES THE MOB 


247 


she’s got to tell us without any more fooling.” 

“But E. N. are not Ebenezer’s initials/’ 

“They’re not, eh, young lady? you’re going to 
try to bluff us on that point too, are you? Well, 
you can’t do it. Everyone knows that E stands 
for Eben and N for Neezer.” 

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Mary 
threw back her head and laughed merrily. That 
a man of Norwood’s age should not know any 
better than that, struck her as very amusing. 
“Why, you might as well say that my initials are 
M. R.—M for May, and R for Ree. Ebenezer is 
all one word just as Mary is. His name is Eben¬ 
ezer Henry Clay Jackson, so his initials are E— 
H—C—J. Even if they were E. N., you couldn’t 
prove that the knife belongs to him. Perhaps two 
or three men here have those initials, and you 
can’t say they murdered that man.” Her quick 
eye saw several in the crowd nudge their neighbors 
and look fixedly at Norwood. “Why, those are 
your very own initials, you know.” 

A louder murmur greeted this remark made in 
all innocence, and a look of fear leaped into Nor¬ 
wood’s eyes. He saw the two who had helped him 
search the house withdraw a little distance from 
the group, and three or four others followed them. 

“We’d better be moving, boys.” The man who 
had already objected to Norwood’s methods spoke. 
“Guess we’ve made a mistake. We’d better go 
home and get out our spellin’ books so as not to be 


248 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


fooled so easy next time. Too bad we didn't take 
time to remember that Norwood never was a per- 
tic'lar friend of Bill's/' 

Then Norwood's rage broke all bounds. Seizing 
Mary by the shoulder he roared: 4 ‘Where's that 

fool nigger, you d-d kid! Tell me, or I'll use 

the rope we brought for him on you!" 

With a cry, Mary shrank back, trying to push 
the twins behind her as Aunt Mandy sprang to 
the defense of her nurselings. But Berta jerked 
herself free and sprang like a little cat on Nor¬ 
wood, clinging to his coat and kicking his shins 
while she shrilled, “You let our Mary 'lone! You 
let our Mary 'lone! Daddy and Uncle will spank 
you with a big stick!'' The smaller group on the 
lawn started for the porch, then fell back as an 
arm shot over Aunt Mandy's shoulder, and Nor¬ 
wood measured his length on the porch. 

“Oh, we failed him down, Aunt Mandy! You 

and I-" but turning, Berta looked up into her 

uncle's face. Something she saw there made her 
run to the old nurse's protecting arms. 

“Get off this porch, you hound, before I kick 
you off!" The words came low and tense; and the 
ashen pallor of the Doctor's face and the steely 
glint of his eyes urged Norwood to obey with 
alacrity. Facing about, the Doctor drew a revolver 
and aimed it at the crowd. With his eyes upon 
them, he asked sternly, “What are these children 
doing here, Aunt Mandy?" 



MARY FACES THE MOB 


249 


“Massa Frank, Massa Frank-” 

“It isn’t Aunt Mandy’s fault, Uncle! I made 
her bring them down. I thought perhaps these 
men would believe them when they wouldn’t take 

my word-” A sob cut off Mary’s explanation. 

Never before had she been doubted. 

The men on the lawn saw the Doctor’s face 
relax a little. “It is all right, Auntie. Take them 
indoors and give them their picture books—any¬ 
thing to make them forget all this. Mary, I 
shall need you here. What do these ruffians 
want! ’ ’ 

The story of the afternoon was soon told, the 
Doctor bending his head close to her lips to catch 
the last sentence spoken in a whisper: “The 
police are on the way.” 

“That fellow skulking back there behind the 
crowd, step up this way. Yes, I mean you! Be 
quick about it, or you may feel the additional 
weight of a few grains of lead. Now, my friend, 
the next time your charity prompts you to send 
me to visit a poor dying woman at the cross-roads, 
be careful to plan so that I shall not meet Doctor 
Wren on the way. You are all surprised to see me 
home so soon. According to your calculations, I 
should scarcely have arrived at the cross-roads. 
But as Doctor Wren had just passed through that 
locality and had made it his business to inquire 
into the health of the community there, which he 
assured me was never better, I concluded that I 


250 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


was more urgently needed at home. However, I 
shall settle my little score with you later. As for 
the rest of you blood-thirsty scoundrels, it may 
afford you some satisfaction to know that I am 
fairly well acquainted with your leader. Yes, Ely 
Norwood, or whatever it is you call yourself now, 
I recognized you the instant I laid eyes on you. 
The last time I had the pleasure of meeting you, 
you were Alec Wells. The rest of you may like to 
know that the ruffian who has been leading you 
around by the nose was run out of his little home 
town in New York State, because he wasn’t fit to 
live with respectable people. He has served at 
least two terms in jail. And now he comes down 
here disturbing the peace of a law-abiding com¬ 
munity. You may well be proud of your leader, 
and, I might add, of yourselves for this after¬ 
noon’s work. I am willing to bet that not one of 
you, even this cur who has sworn away the life of 
an innocent man, would know Ebenezer from any 
other old negro on the place. If Scip had fol¬ 
lowed me out on this porch, you would have sworn 
that he was your victim. And still you doubt the 
word of an innocent little child, judging her by 
your own contemptible selves. Let me tell you 
that the word of such a one is more to me and to 
any self-respecting man than the sworn testimony 
of a gang like you. You have not hesitated to take 
the law into your own hands by seeking to murder 
an innocent man to avenge the death of one prob- 


MARY FACES THE MOB 


251 


ably very much like yourselves—far less respect¬ 
able citizens than Ebenezer has proved himself. 
You have, therefore, made yourselves answerable 
to the law; and with all my heart I commend you 
to the care of the rightful guardians of that law, 
who are now waiting to look after you.” The 
Doctor waved his hand; and for the first time his 
hearers became aware of the presence of the 
police, who, leaving the auto at the bridge, had 
hurried up the hill and quietly surrounded them. 

“But, Uncle, some of these men didn’t like the 
way their leader was acting, and they tried to get 
the others to go home-” 

“Nevertheless, Mary, the fact remains that they 
have trespassed on the property of another with 
the avowed intention of taking human life. We 
shall let the law decide what is to be done about it; 
and your father may act as he sees fit in regard 
to the damage done his property. Sergeant, Alec 
Wells here, alias Ely Norwood, is deserving of 
your special attention. It is not at all improbable 
that a careful investigation as to his whereabouts 
yesterday morning may throw a great deal of 
light on the crime that was committed in the 
woods.” 

In silence the Doctor and Mary stood watching 
until the last of the crowd had disappeared. Then 
dropping his revolver into his coat pocket, he held 
out his arms to the child. 

“0 Uncle, it was all so awful, so awful!” She 



252 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


hid her face against his coat and trembled vio¬ 
lently. 

“There, there, pet; it is all over, and no very 
serious damage done.” 

Mary threw back her head. “But I wouldn’t 
have told, Uncle! I wouldn’t have told if they had 
hanged me with that dreadful rope they brought 
for poor old Ebenezer!” 

“No, little one, you would not have told; and I 
thank God that I arrived in time to prevent any¬ 
thing more than you had already suffered from 
those beasts! I am sure that I never rode so fast 
in all my life, though I did not for a moment sus¬ 
pect the true state of affairs. Something urged 
me to take the bridle path through the fields, which 
seemed strangely deserted; but when I reached 
the barn and found no one there, either, I was 
thoroughly frightened and hurried into the house 
by the back door.” 

“Tobe must have told everyone what was going 
to happen, and I suppose they were so frightened 
that they all ran away and hid. Even the dogs 
are gone. ’ ’ 

“But where is Clyde! I told him that I was 
called to the cross-roads, and he assured me that 
he would be around all afternoon.” 

“Bab and I passed him the other side of the 
bridge. He was riding fast, and I remember think¬ 
ing at the time that he didn’t look pleased to meet 
us.” 


MARY FACES THE MOB 


253 


66 The scoundrel! Shook all responsibility, did 
he? Well, he was hired by me two years ago, and 
he will be fired by me for this day’s work. Bun- 
ning off and leaving a helpless old woman and you 
children to face that mob! ’ ’ 

“0 Uncle, you looked so terrible, and I was so 
afraid you were going to shoot! ’ ’ 

The Doctor laughed. “I could not have done 
that even if it had become necessary, for the re¬ 
volver is absolutely empty. I cleaned it this 
morning and was interrupted before I had time to 
reload it—a fact which escaped my mind when I 
slipped it into my pocket after Ebenezer and Scip 
had told me the kind of locality I was about to 
visit. But tell me, Goldilocks, where have you 
managed to conceal the old darkey so success¬ 
fully? ” 

1 1 Can’t you guess, Uncle? I forgot all about it 
myself until I asked Blessed Mother to help me. 
Then in a flash it came to me. But I must run up 
and let him out. He will be nearly smothered.” 

“I shall go with you. The poor old fellow will 
need more help to climb out of that place than you 
are able to give him.” 

“And, Uncle, please try to make him understand 
that he mustn’t tell where he has been hiding. I 
tried to, but I am afraid he will forget to keep the 
secret.” 

After clicking the catch five times, they waited 
a few moments; but to Mary’s surprise the trap- 


254 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


door did not open. Again and again she twisted 
the screw; but it was evident that Ebenezer did 
not hear the signal. The Doctor stamped near the 
chimney, though Mary explained that the thick¬ 
ness of the floor would prevent the sound from 
being heard below. 

“He must he asleep, Uncle.” 

The Doctor felt that something more serious 
was the trouble, but he did not show his anxiety 
to Mary. “'He really should not be left in that 
close place any longer. I shall go down to the 
panel at the foot of the stairs and climb up 
through the passage in the chimney. It would be 
well if you would get some ice water .’ 7 

Before entering the passage, he went to the 
medicine cabinet and slipped two bottles into his 
pocket. 

Mary, hurrying through the lower hall with the 
ice water, saw the carriage stop at the front steps 
and paused long enough to explain to her father 
and mother the meaning of the trampled lawn and 
disorderly house. They hastened upstairs with 
her, and in the hall met the Doctor looking like a 
chimney sweep. 

“I am glad you are home: I need your help, 
Rob. The fright and hurry have evidently been 
too much for the poor old fellow. He is lying 
against the chimney so that I cannot push in the 
little door. The ledge is so narrow that I find it 
impossible to throw my whole weight against it. 


MARY FACES THE MOB 


255 


It gives, but will not open sufficiently for me to 
put even my band in. It is well that neither of us 
is very stout, for we shall have a tight squeeze as 
it is. Mary, put your pitcher on the floor near the 
trap where I can reach it, and then come down 
here with Mother. It will not do to have anyone 
surprising us while we are helping Ebenezer out 
of the hiding hole. If you wait in the guest room 
here, we shall call you if you are needed.’’ Fear¬ 
ing the worst for the old darkey, the Doctor was 
determined that the little girl should be spared 
any further shock for that day at least. 

It was a difficult matter for both men to obtain 
a footing outside the little door; and it took all 
their combined strength to force it in, pushing 
Ebenezer with it. Mr. Selwyn hurried to unbolt 
the trapdoor, and they finally succeeded in lifting 
the old negro out into the attic. 

“Alive, thank God, but not much more, Rob! 
It would have been a blow to Mary if he had died 
down there after all she has gone through to save 
him .” 

“Well for us that it isn’t Pompey. We could 
never have pushed open the door with him leaning 
against it. Ebenezer is only skin and bones. No 
one knows how old he is.” 

The Doctor forced some brandy between the old 
man’s lips, and the two men worked with him for 
some time before he showed signs of returning 
consciousness. They carried an old couch in from 


256 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


the next room and made him as comfortable as 
possible. At last he opened his eyes and stared 
wildly about him. His quavering voice rang out 
pitifully. 

“Is Ah daid? did dey hang me by de neck twell 
Ah’s daid?” 

“Ho, no, Ebenezer, you are perfectly safe now. 
Those ruffians have been taken away by the 
police.” 

“T’ank de good Lawd, Massa Eob! T’ank de 
good Lawd an’ Miss May-ree! Ah’s done libbed 
t’ die in ma bed—lak de ’spectable niggah—what 

Ah’s alwuz—tried t’ be-” The haggard, 

drawn look on the wrinkled face gave place to 
one of utter peace and contentment, and Ebenezer 
slept. Some time later he woke and asked for 
Mary. Before going to him the little girl re¬ 
minded her uncle of the necessity of impressing 
on him the importance of keeping the secret. 

“Don’t let that worry you, dear. I can assure 
you that the secret will be perfectly safe with 
Ebenezer.” 

Mary sat holding the gnarled, old black hand. 
Once she caught the words, “T’ank de good Lawd 
an’ Miss May-ree Ah’s gwine die in ma bed lak a 
’spectable niggah! ’ ’ 

“But you’re not going to die now, Ebenezer. 
You will be all right to-morrow, I’m sure; and 
then you are going to take us to see the cave where 
the bear lived. Don’t you remember?” 



MABY FACES THE MOB 


257 


“Jes’ as yo’ says, Miss May-ree, jes’ as yo’ 
says. Ah’s gwine do persackly what yo’ says, 
’kase yo’ alwuz tells true. Yo’ done tole dis yeah 
niggah dem debbils wouldn’t cotch him nohow, an’ 
dey nebah done it. An’—an’—but Massa Rob an’ 
Massa Alf’ed an’ Missy Bertha ain’t gwine know 
’bout dat b ’ah cave, ’kase ole Marse Selwyn done 
’pressed it on me fo’ sho’ dat Ah wahn’t to tell 
dem nuffin’ ’bout it, nohow. Missy Bertha am 
sho’ly a sweet, perky li’l missy, she sho’ly am— 
bress her li’l heart!” And Mary knew that the 
old man was wandering in the long ago. Presently 
he dozed again, and Mary was sent down to bed. 
Mr. Selwyn and the Doctor remained with Eben- 
ezer. 

Toward morning they saw that the end was 
very near; and in the early gray dawn the faithful 
old darkey died in his bed “lak de ’spectable 
niggah” he had always tried to be. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GOOD-BYE TO CEDAR RIDGE. 

“I am afraid that my little girl’s love for her 
daddy’s old home has been very much lessened by 
the trying events of last week.” Mr. Selwyn 
stroked the bright head leaning against his knee. 
He and Mary had just returned from their last 
stroll down to the gates; for on the following 
morning they were to start for New York. The 
two had seated themselves on the veranda, he in a 
big armchair, she on the step at his feet, to watch 
the moon rise over the tall, dark cedars at the end 
of the ridge. 

“But why do you think that, Father? Those 
rough, bad men don’t belong to Cedar Ridge. They 
don’t belong even to the village. Most of them 
have come here only lately. The real village peo¬ 
ple have always been lovely to us whenever we 
have driven in there. Even poor old Ebenezer’s 
death didn’t make me feel so very bad. I was 
so thankful that he died as he did instead of in 
the way those terrible men wanted to make him 
die. He couldn’t have lived very much longer 
anyway. I really think it is better he is gone: I 
would always be afraid that some of those bad 
men might do something to him to get even be¬ 
cause they were put in jail and fined. Of course, 
Norwood could never hurt him again. That poor, 
wicked man! I hope he will be sorry before they 
258 


GOOD-BYE TO CEDAR RIDGE 


259 


hang him. But I am going to do exactly as Uncle 
said—pretend it was all an ugly dream and forget 
about it as fast as I can. No, indeed, Father, I 
can’t think of a single thing that would lessen my 
love for Cedar Bidge. I love it better and better 
every day; and if Uncle and Aunt Mary could be 
here, I would never wish to leave it.” 

“Not even to return to Bird-a-Lea?” 

“No, Father. Before we came down here, I 
was sure I could never think so much of any place 
as I did of Bird-a-Lea. It is so beautiful, and we 
were so happy there. But it hasn’t the meaning 
for us that your old home has; and I wish we 
could stay here all the year round.” 

“So do I, pet. If it were not for Uncle Frank 
and Aunt Mary, I would soon give up my business 
in New York and come down here to look after the 
old place in person. Perhaps we shall be able to 
arrange it some day. Aunt Mary may be sent to 
some other house of the Order, though I should 
be sorry to see her leave Maryvale; and Uncle 
could find enough to keep him busy and happy 
down here. Doctor Wren has practically retired.” 

“Poor Bab! I did feel so sorry for her when 
the Doctor brought her over here that evening to 
apologize for running away and leaving me alone 
with Ebenezer. But even that was the very best 
thing she could have done, though at the time I 
thought she was terrible. You see, Father, if she 
had stayed with me, she would have insisted on 


260 


THE SELWYNS IN DIXIE 


coming to the attic, too. She would never have 
been willing to wait downstairs alone. Then she 
would have seen our hiding place. > But now it is 
still our own secret. And she is so happy, Father, 
about coming to Maryvale in the fall. I shall ask 
Aunt Mary to let her come over to stay all night 
as Wilhelmina does. I hope Wilhelmina will like 
her as much as I do. Oh, if we could only find 
some trace of her mother! Not a single answer 
to that notice you put in the papers, was there, 
Father !” 

“No, Mary; and it was worded in such a way 
that there could be no possibility of its being 
understood by anyone but Mrs. "Wren. She was 
to apply to my lawyer for the information prom¬ 
ised her; but he has had no request for it either 
in person or by mail. So I fear that Mrs. Wren 
is dead, dear. Still, we shall not give up yet.” 

“And to think that our home for the little sick 
children is almost ready to be opened, Father! 
Dear, me! I wish it wasn’t so hard to decide on a 
name for it.” 

“Let us wait and ask Aunt Mary’s advice about 
that. By the way, did she mention Florence in 
her letter! I was called away before you had 
finished reading it.” 

“Yes, Father, she said that Florence is finding 
these warm days very trying. But everyone minds 
the first warm days more than the real summer, I 
think. When we are back again at Bird-a-Lea, I 


GOOD-BYE TO CEDAR RIDGE 


261 


am going to drive her to the woods every day. 
She will like that. 0 Father! isn't it wonderful 
now ! yy Mary’s eyes drank in the beanty of the 
scene. The full moon had risen above the dark 
treetops, flooding everything in its mellow radi¬ 
ance. “This is one of the ways I shall love to 
remember Cedar Ridge. Another is the way it 
looked that first evening with the glorious sunset 
behind it; and another, as it has been since the 
shrubs and fruit trees began to blossom. At Bird- 
a-Lea I thought I loved the autumn best; but now 
spring seems more beautiful to me.” 

“You belong to the spring, little bluebird. 
Leave the summer, autumn, and winter to us old 
people.” 































